


House on Maple Lake

by ANobleCompanion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: DCBB 2015, John's A+ Parenting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Build, long distance, mildly graphic description of a hit and run near beginning, wibbly wobbly timey-wimey plot twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 11:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 54,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5247365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANobleCompanion/pseuds/ANobleCompanion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel left the refuge of the lake house for a job in the city, leaving behind a letter for the next tenant. When an accident brings him back to find some peace, what he doesn’t expect to find is a response to his letter. Dean bought the lake house in an attempt to connect to his past and figure out his future. The letter he finds waiting for him doesn’t make any sense, so he writes back, setting off a chain of communication that will change both men forever. For some reason though, they never seem to be at the mailbox at the same time… Lake House AU (based on the 2006 Sandra Bullock/Keanu Reeves movie).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Casa en Maple Lake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8802166) by [somewhat_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhat_angel/pseuds/somewhat_angel)



>  
> 
> ** It has been brought to my attention that in certain download formats (like kindle) the images do not download with the story. Unfortunately, the letters that go between Dean and Cas are uploaded AS images to maintain individual handwriting. The letters start in chapter 2. If you do not have images, this story will not make sense! 
> 
> [allisondbl](http://trekchik.tumblr.com) did suggest the following solution:   
> Here's a present to all: YOU CAN HAVE YOUR PICTURES AND YOUR KINDLE/NOOK TOO!!
> 
> I too had the problem of missing the letters with the wonderful story. So what I did was download the story as both a PDF and click HTML on Archive which opens it IN MY BROWSER as an HTML story with the inserts, then use a program I have to "Print to PDF" and download that. (I say both as I can't remember which turned out best) I then loaded both into Calibre, made sure I checked "use heuristics" and lowered the spaces between lines and tightened paragraphs. Hit convert to AZW and Bob's your uncle! It worked perfectly and I was able to slide a more than readable copy complete with the letters into my Kindle.
> 
> LOVED the story and so wanted to pay it forward!  
>    
> There are many many people that I should be thanking for this story. To keep the list as brief as possible, I want to thank my wifies ([trekchik](http://trekchik.tumblr.com), [metatron-the-transformer](http://metatron-the-transformer), [powerfulweak](http://powerfulweak.tumblr.com), and  [winjennster](http://winjennster.tumblr.com)) who have been listening to me drone on about this story since spring of 2014. I also owe a huge debt to my betas, [trekchik](http://trekchik.tumblr.com), [swlfangirl](http://swlfangirl.tumblr.com), and especially [metatron-the-transformer](http://metatron-the-transformer) who read through several versions of the draft and endured massive letter spam!
> 
> Last but most CERTAINLY not least, the wonderful artist of this story, [vieroksuja](http://vieroksuja.tumblr.com/). Check out the rest of the art [here](http://vieroksuja.tumblr.com/post/133648787275/another-dcbb-i-participated-read-it-here) I don't know how I got lucky enough for her to choose my story, but I am so grateful she did! Please go over to tumblr to tell her how much you love the art! 
> 
> On a final note. Please note the tag "timey-wimey plot twist." This story has a happy ending. None of the archive warnings apply. However, there is a brief hint that one happens because time is weird. If you are concerned about reading something you don't want, feel free to message me over on tumblr at [supernaturallynoble](http://supernaturallynoble.tumblr.com/)

Castiel’s hand rested on the blue, worn mailbox, his thumb tracing fondly over the dent in the side. He glanced at the house he had called home for the last year as he felt the cool metal under his skin.  

He didn’t really want to leave. The quiet solitude of the lake calmed him. Michael often complained about the lack of privacy; after all, the walls were made entirely of glass. But who was there, in this empty pocket of nature, to intrude on him? Castiel found the glass walls freeing. He felt more connected to the world around him than he ever had living in the city. Many mornings had been spent watching the sun burn wisps of fog off the water’s surface as the swirls of moisture created patterns in front of him. Talkative ducks paddled over the surface of the water. Occasionally, a ghostly swan would appear from the mists reminding him of the innocence and beauty that surrounded him.  

Such imagery wasn’t something he always got to see in his chosen profession.  

A profession that now prompted Castiel to now bid farewell to this refuge, his escape from what life had become before he found this haven.  

He sighed. That time was over. Reality beckoned and Castiel knew he needed to rejoin the real world. Tearing his eyes away from the house, he let them drift for the last time up the dock, counting as he always did, the dainty blue cat prints culminating in a matching set on the pole of the mailbox. They had been there when he’d moved in and had always piqued a certain curiosity. With the mailbox again the focus of his attention, he slid the thin envelope with his forwarding address inside for the benefit of the next tenant.  

Finally and regretfully, he turned to his ancient, gold, Lincoln Continental.

The car sat, currently filled to the brim with most of his belongings. The furniture had been picked up and delivered to his new apartment in the city by the movers earlier that morning. Everything else he owned or valued was in the boxes crammed into every available space with a small void left for him in the driver’s seat.

Contemplating the vehicle silently for a moment before shaking himself out of his revere, Castiel moved forward, opening the door and sliding behind the wheel. He turned to look at the tawny cat with golden eyes sitting on top of a box on the seat next him.

“Well, Gabriel, I guess it’s time.”  

Castiel was glad the car’s contents blocked his final view as he threw the car into gear and backed up. He didn’t want another reminder of what he was leaving behind. 

* * *

The next morning dawned far too bright for Castiel’s taste. He had grown accustomed to the slow crawl of the sun across the lake as it rose above the horizon, the trees scattering the first rays as they hit the water. Here, he was on the thirteenth floor. Despite the forest of architecture surrounding him, the buildings in front of his window were too low to provide much protection against the sun’s insistent glare. He had arrived late the night before and hadn’t been able to dredge up the energy to find and install curtains on his window, opting instead for locating his bed sheets in the mass of boxes and the bliss of sleep.  

Now he was rudely pulled from unconsciousness by a sharp glare cutting across his bed.

Grumbling, Castiel rubbed the lingering exhaustion from his eyes as he stumbled to the kitchen to start the coffee maker. Gabriel sat on the counter watching him, clearly unimpressed. Castiel just rolled his eyes and opened up a can of cat food, emptying it into a small bowl on the tiled floor. Gabriel hopped down to sniff it once before looking back up at him. Castiel would have sworn if he were looking at a person’s face, the cat’s lip would be curled in disgust. He had never seen a cat with a greater propensity for expressing what seemed almost human-like emotions - or a greater sweet tooth. Fairly soon after adopting Gabriel, Castiel had learned to keep all candy hidden in the cupboard, complete with a small lock.  

Castiel raised his eyebrow in return as he looked down at the cat, wondering, not for the first time, who really owned whom. “That’s all you’re getting. You don’t need sweets, and despite your preference, chocolate isn’t good for you.”  

Gabriel stared at him a moment longer before emitting a low rumble of discontent in his chest and eating what was offered.  

Castiel rubbed his hand over his face and scrubbed his cheeks as he tried to wake himself up. He was starting his new position today. It wouldn’t do to show up appearing sleep deprived.  Fortunately, since he would only be shadowing his assigned mentor, his shift would be a standard eight hour meet, greet, and paperwork. The real shifts, twelve to fourteen hour days, wouldn’t start for another week or so. Nonetheless, the pace would still be frantic.  

Sighing, he pushed himself off the counter to get ready. His coffee finished percolating, and he poured it into a huge mug before moving to the bedroom to change. A short time later, he was presentable and in his car.  

The drive was brief, as it was meant to be. Northwestern Memorial Hospital was only a few blocks from his apartment. He could walk on warmer days, and probably would once summer really took hold. He preferred the idea of being close. It would make it easier to get in for emergencies on-calls, and he didn’t want to attempt the busy Chicago traffic exhausted at the end of a double shift.  

Navigating the parking garage, Castiel pulled into a visitor’s spot. Until he received his official parking pass, this would have to do. He sighed again. He should be grateful, he was grateful. Northwestern was the best hospital in the city. To have been hired on directly out of his residency was at once exhilarating and humbling. He couldn’t stop the constant flutter of nerves in his stomach, but he scolded himself for feeling them regardless.  

He’d graduated first in his class. He worked hard to get where he was, even if it meant giving up a lot to do it. It had been worth it. Now he was here, a real doctor. Or he would be, if he could figure out where he was supposed to go. Castiel checked the notes he’d made on his phone.

First floor, Feinberg Pavilion - emergency department. As a teaching hospital, Northwestern wasn’t a traditional inpatient hospital - though it still had space for almost nine hundred beds to accommodate post-op care, cancer ward, women’s hospital and psychiatric care. His clinic hours and office would be in the Galtar Pavilion next door, but a good portion of his day would be spent with the patients in the emergency wing as well.

Making his way to the garage elevator, he stepped in behind a crowd of people, most of whom were clearly patients or family of patients. He looked around at the group sharing the same space as him, wondering about their stories. A young girl, probably no more than eight, stared back at him boldly. He gave her a small smile, just a twitch of his mouth when the elevator signaled its arrival at the ground level.  

Castiel walked through in through the main entrance, and was met with the general bustle and confusion of an emergency ward. The nurses’ station was directly in front of him, just to the left of a large cluster of chairs filled with people suffering from various injuries or illnesses. Castiel stepped up to the counter.

“Excuse me,” he began.

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait a moment, we’re a little busy right now, and unless you’re family, I can’t tell you anything anyway,” the short, dark haired woman behind the counter told him brusquely, but not unkindly.  

“No, I’m sorry, I’m looking for Dr. Balthazar French?”  

“Dr. French doesn’t have office hours today, you need to make an appointment.”

“No, I’m…”

Castiel didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence before he felt someone hooking his arm through the elbow and tugging him along.

“You’re Castiel!” a jovial voice with a British accent exclaimed. “I’m Dr. French, but just call me Balthazar, or Bal, if you like.” Balthazar grinned at him before tossing over his shoulder, “Thanks, Tessa! You’re a doll, always looking out for me!”

Tessa rolled her eyes and waved the two men off, but Castiel saw her throw a grin at the attending before they turned the corner.

“Welcome to Northwestern, Castiel. It’s your lucky day, we’re absolutely swamped, so you get the pleasure of jumping right into the fire. No frying pan necessary. Always thought that was a pesky step anyway.”  

They stopped at an unattended man on a gurney so that Balthazar could read his chart.  

“What is this man doing down here? He needs to be hooked up to a catheter and fluids, stat. Castiel, darling; you can take care of that right? You need to head down this hallway, make a left, then another left and a right. Just follow the arrows. I’ve got to take someone’s hide off for leaving this gentleman to die.”  

At the last sentence, the man on the gurney’s eyes went wide and he looked at Castiel in panic. Castiel had no idea how to react to such a pronouncement.  

“Um, ok?”

Balthazar grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. When you’re done, have Tessa tell you how to get to HR. Naomi will need to get you set up with all the paperwork. Then meet me in the cafeteria for lunch and we’ll start talking about how things actually work around here.”

He shot Castiel another grin before he was off.

Castiel looked down at the man on the cart, sincerely wishing he were already changed into a set of scrubs rather than his suit and trench coat.  

“Am I going to die?” the man asked.

“No, sir,” Castiel said sincerely, hoping it was true. One of the first rules you learned in medical school was not to assure the patient they would be all right, but Castiel had always had a hard time with the mandate. After all, hope was sometimes the best and only medicine they could give, even if it was a long shot.  

Gritting his teeth, he pushed on the gurney praying he wouldn’t get lost.  

* * *

Castiel got his paperwork taken care of, and Balthazar even showed him his office, which was still a novel concept to him. There was a line of bookshelves along one wall just waiting for him to fill with tomes, both medical and a few fictional. He’d often found when he pulled a longer shift he couldn’t immediately turn his mind off to nap and something non-work related acted like a balm. In his residency his locker had been stuffed full with books to choose from.

In addition to Balthazar and Tessa, he’d also met and begun to make friends with a number of other members of staff. The charge nurse, Meg, was feisty and liked to flirt.

“Castiel, huh? Angel boy.”

Castiel had raised his eyebrow in surprise. Very few people recognized his namesake as angelic. Meg just laughed.  

“Yeah, my folks were pretty religious. Never really got into it myself. Too much goes down here that just doesn’t sit with me if there’s some big higher plan going on. Besides, you got Doc Bal over there,” she crooked her thumb over her shoulder at Balthazar, who was currently bantering with the nurse in charge of records. “Another supposed angel. Though not quite as handsome as you.” Meg smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching up slightly as she gave him a once over. “What’s it with you guys and hospitals? I prefer fictional angels myself. You’re fresh out of residency right?”

Castiel nodded in confirmation and she’d grinned.  “Newbie angel! Clarence it is.”

Castiel just frowned. “I don’t understand that reference.”

Meg had laughed, but their banter remained easy. He willingly recognized the fact that if he had been looking for a relationship, Meg would be easy to date. But he wasn’t looking.  Had no desire for romance. Besides, he had no intention of getting involved with anyone from work. Ever.

It was after nine when he finally arrived back at his apartment, Balthazar having insisted on taking him out to a local bar after their mutual shift ended to welcome him properly. By the time he stuck his key in the deadbolt, he was exhausted.

He opened the door and flipped the light switch. It made a halfhearted attempt at blinking to life before there was a soft _pop_ and the bulb went dead. Great.

Stumbling through the dark room, tripping over several boxes in the process, Castiel finally found his way to the lamp beside his couch and switched it on.  

The room flooded with a soft light.  Gabriel sat atop one of the, as yet, empty bookshelves, eyes glowing a yellow-gold in the reflection of the bulb and tail twitching in a way that Castiel was certain meant he was amused.  

“Some roommate you are,” Castiel muttered, long since used to his cat’s perverse personality. “Are you going to join me for dinner?” he asked.

The cat’s ears perked forward and he hopping from the bookshelf to the back of the couch, quickly running along its spine. When he reached the end, he dropped gracefully to the floor. Rather than going to Castiel, however, he went straight for the pantry and imperiously tapped a paw against the door. Gabriel’s response to the mention of food was one of the many traits that made Castiel feel his feline was smarter than the typical cat. Of course, he couldn’t really call Gabriel _his_. If anything, _he_ belonged to the cat.  

He fed Gabriel first. Once the cat was satisfied, he opened the door to his refrigerator and winced. He hadn’t gone shopping the day before and what he’d brought with him from the lake house was paltry at best. He sighed and closed the door again, resigned to an evening of one sided conversation and delivery.  

Dean pulled up to the lake house. He wasn’t sure what drew him out here, or why he’d bought the property to begin with, but he had and he was here, his baby loaded up with the few meager belongings he actually cared about.

The sun was just starting to set behind him, throwing long fingers of golden color over the lake itself. The air around him seemed quiet, almost oppressive in its stillness compared to the constant motion of the city. The lake wasn’t silent. The air trilled with the sounds of cicadas and an occasional bullfrog. It was the lack of industry that struck Dean – no motors, no engines, no cars honking at each other as they navigated busy streets. The absence of this cacophony felt like a blanket muffling out the distractions of the world. But the wilderness didn’t bother him. Dean was used to all different types of environments.  

He wasn’t used to being alone.  

He wondered again why he’d decided to move here. He hadn’t told his father. Hadn’t dared. He didn’t want to think of John’s reaction to this house and the memories associated with it. Dean shook his head at himself. It was highly unlikely he’d be able to hide it from his father for too long - after all, he _did_ work with the man.  

Stepping out of the car, Dean looked more closely at the structure. Even from a distance, it looked run down. Like a once great lady, long neglected. That alone tugged at Dean. The desire to fix what was broken.  

He opened the trunk of the Impala and grabbed a box. As he walked over the wooden dock that separated land from house, he noted it was in desperate need of a new coat of paint.  Ah well.  He was sure that would be the least of the projects he would find waiting for him here.  At least he wouldn’t be short of distractions.

All told, it took him about half an hour to shift his belongings to the house. He’d be relying on an air mattress tonight. He’d never needed to purchase a bed before, having lived most of his life in one motel or another.  

He stood in the breakfast room and surveyed first the kitchen, and then the windows overlooking the lake. From his position, he could identify at least three obvious projects that would require immediate attention. Despite that, just being there, Dean felt a missing piece settle in his gut. He still wasn’t whole. He knew there were parts of himself that were unfinished. He’d long ago accepted that he would _always_ be incomplete. He just wasn’t one of those people that got all the good things in life. But this? Maybe this could be one of those good things.  Maybe he could have this. His mind still niggled at John’s reaction if he found out, but Dean pushed it down. He needed this.  

As though on cue, Dean’s phone began to ring.  

Sighing, he pulled it from his back pocket. There were only a few people who would bother contacting him. A glance at his caller ID confirmed his suspicions. He swiped the bar across the bottom of the screen to answer.  

“Dad.”

“Dean, where are you, boy?”

“I told you, Dad, I bought a place. I moved out here tonight.”

“What the hell for? Damn waste of money, if you ask me. Could’a kept bunking with me, or even Bobby.”

“Dad, I’m twenty-six. I needed my own space. We’ve bought in on the business with Bobby, so we’re staying put. I figured it was as good a time as any to actually find a place to settle down.”  

Dean heard his father grunt on the other end of the line. “Still say it’s a damn waste of money. Where is this place anyway? No doubt it’s a piece of shit fixer upper.”

Dean held his breath and counted to ten. He’d never been able to lie to his father.  Hadn’t been raised to. John was a former marine - although he hadn’t been in the corps long.  He’d stayed in the military long enough to get an engineering degree before he’d gotten out and gone into architecture. That time in the corps had been enough for John to instill discipline in his sons. With Dean at least, it had worked.  

“It’s a lake house,” Dean hedged. He didn’t feel inclined to give specifics. After all, this was Chicago. There were plenty of lake houses to be had. Dean hadn’t even specified which lake. John would naturally assume Dean was talking about Lake Michigan. It probably wouldn’t even occur to him that Dean might look west of the city to the small, more isolated Maple Lake.  Dean counted on his father’s long-held aversion to lake houses in general to push him off the topic.  

He was right. John grunted again. “I bet it’s a piece of shit, just falling apart isn’t it?” he asked, derision clear in his voice.

Dean sighed. “It could use some work, yes. It’s how I could afford it, Dad.”  

“With all the new development going up, you couldn’t find something that simply _works_ for a change, could you?”

It was a long-standing argument. One Dean didn’t feel equipped to handle that night.  

“It’s what I found, Dad. It suits me. Is there a reason you called? Do you need me for something?”

There was a pause, as though John was trying to determine if Dean was being smart with him. He must have decided not, or at least to let it pass. “Wanted to remind you that we break ground on lot ten tomorrow at the Kripke Hollow property. As the site manager, you need to be there early. No later than five thirty, you got that, son?”

“Understood, sir. I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”

“Bobby will be on hand if you need help with the men.”

Dean felt his shoulders tense and told himself to relax. Bobby was always on hand. His father wasn’t insinuating he couldn’t do the job properly; he was just reminding him of his assets. “Yes sir, Bobby and I have things well in hand. The crew is ready to go in the morning.”  

“Good. I need to check out the progress on the Carver Canons property first thing, but I’ll be over to look in on you around noon. I expect the crew to be well underway by then.  Remember, you’re already behind.”  

Dean felt a sinking sensation in his chest. No matter how old he got, no matter how many properties he had under his belt, his father never seemed to trust his ability to get the job done. He couldn’t lie that it hurt.  

“Yes, sir.”  

“See you tomorrow, son.”

A click on the other end of the line told Dean the conversation was over.

Dean stared at the phone in his hand for a moment before dropping it on the counter and dragging his fingers through his hair. John was always happy to remind Dean why he didn’t deserve good things. It wasn’t like he was completely wrong. At least he hadn’t brought up Sammy. That was an argument Dean just wasn’t prepared to have.  

He debated the merits of blowing up the bed and just going to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long day after all. A moment’s contemplation was all he needed to realize he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. And if all he was going to do was stare at the ceiling all night, he might as well keep himself busy. He’d start with the kitchen.  

Rolling up his sleeves, Dean went in search of his broom.  

 ****  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

True to form, Dean worked through the night, fixing the most immediate problems around the house. He knew he was going to pay for it that day. He never slept much, but his crew had made it clear in the past that if he didn’t get at least four hours, he was about as pleasant to be around as a bear in December. Dean needed to be on top of his game today if his Dad was going to be visiting the site.  

At least the kitchen had been thoroughly cleaned, and he’d taken inventory of the parts he would need to fix the plumbing for the sink. There were some changes he was playing over in his mind about the layout as well, but he reminded himself his first task was to get things working.  

He still wasn’t sure how many modifications he could make to this particular house anyway.  

He was pleased to find the majority of the primary appliances still functioned. The stove was a thing of beauty, picked out by someone who knew exactly what they were looking for. It was the centerpiece to the kitchen and Dean had a flash in his mind’s eye of a misty figure, bent over that oven, pulling out a piping hot pie to set on the counter.  

He blinked the image away and blamed it on his exhaustion. Running a hand down his face and over his obvious stubble, Dean rubbed the haze from his vision before looking down at himself. His jeans were dusty, but that hardly mattered. They would be filthy by the end of the day on site anyway. Turning to the bedroom where he’d dropped his duffel of clothes, he dug out a clean Henley and red, plaid, flannel shirt, exchanging them for what he already wore.  

He decided to forgo the shave and grabbed his keys before heading out the door. The morning fog still clung to the lake and Dean almost wished he had a flashlight. The moon had already set, but the sun still hid behind the horizon, so he had to trust his instincts as he put one foot in front of the other crossing the dock.  

Dean made it to the Impala and slid behind the wheel, closing his eyes for a brief moment before inserting the key into the ignition and starting the engine. He turned on the lights and put the car into gear, glancing down briefly at the radio as he did. A flash of movement in front of the car caught the corner of his eye.

“Holy shit!” he shouted, slamming on the brakes.  

His heart pounding furiously, Dean peered out into the light cast by the car’s headlamps.  A golden cat sat on the road in front of him, unconcerned. Dean could have sworn it was smirking at him, like the Cheshire Cat.  

It made no movement to get out of the way, so Dean honked the horn, hoping to startle it.  

The cat stood up, but clearly showed no hurry. Instead, it walked - sauntered - over to the old, black mailbox, rubbing up against the pole. Only then did Dean notice that the flag on the mailbox was raised, indicating the presence of a letter.  

What the hell, he thought. The place had been unoccupied for years. Who would be putting a letter in the box? It was probably just the realtor leaving him a spare key or something.  

Slipping the Impala back into park, Dean left the engine running as he got out and opened the box. Sure enough, there was an envelope inside. In the beam from the headlights, he could see it was addressed, “To the next resident.”  

Bemused, Dean flipped it over for any other information, but saw nothing. He climbed back in the car and dug out the light he kept in the glove compartment so he could read the letter.  

****

Dean frowned down at the letter in his hands. There had to be some kind of mistake.  First, he’d bought the place, outright. No renting required. Maybe the previous owner had rented and then decided to sell. But the letter looked fairly new. The mailbox was hardly weather proof at this point - it definitely needed a fresh coat of paint at the very minimum - but the envelope showed no sign of aging. Dean had been watching this place for at least a decade. He knew it had been empty for the past seven years.  

He glanced down at the letter again and noticed a postscript beneath the signature.

Dean looked at the solid block of wood the mailbox sat on, still illuminated by the beam of the impala’s headlights. There was no evidence of paw prints anywhere. It was too dark to see the dock, so he didn’t even bother. Shrugging, Dean turned and moved back towards his car.  

Reaching back into the open glove compartment, he grabbed a pen and flipped the letter over to the blank side on the reverse. He wrote out a quick response before shoving it into the envelope and placing it back in the mailbox on the off chance the sender returned. It might have been a weird joke of some kind. Returning the flag to its upright position, Dean hurried back to his car.  

Fantastic. Now he was going to be late.  

There was no sign of the cat anywhere.  

Castiel fell into a routine quickly.  He spent his days at the hospital, some shifts longer than others. The first week, he shadowed Balthazar until he had a good grounding in the hospital’s policies and layout. Then he was on his own. As a general practitioner, he saw patients of all ages, but he preferred the younger ones. Often, those admitted long term, either in the cancer ward or in post-op, spent much of the day alone while their parents worked. Whenever he found himself with a free moment, he would wander over to one of these rooms to pass the time with the kids inside, occasionally slipping them one of his favorite books or treats - if they were medically allowed.  

Lunch was usually spent in a corner of the cafeteria. Sometimes Balthazar joined him when his schedule permitted. Castiel found the other man frequently baffled him, but he couldn’t deny he enjoyed his company. It was often the only non-patient, human interaction he had.  

After work, he’d go home and spend the evening with a beer and Gabriel as his only companion.  

It was a Friday, the day before Valentine’s Day, when Castiel’s phone rang.  

“Hello, Michael.”

“Castiel, how are you?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. Are you just calling because I haven’t checked in with you lately?”

There was a heavy sigh from the other end of the line.

“Castiel, I know you’re an adult.  You don’t need to check in all the time, but it would be nice to hear from you every now and then. I’d like to know what’s going on in my little brother’s life.”

Castiel was silent for a moment before responding.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap, that was uncalled for. I just don’t have much to report. I go to work, I come home.”

“That’s it? What about a social life? What do you do once you get home?”

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose, searching for patience. He knew his brother meant well.  

“Honestly? Usually sleeping. I work strange hours Michael.”

“Even doctors have lives, Castiel. You should be getting out, experiencing yours.”

“Michael, I really don’t want to get into this with you right now.”

“Fine. I’ll drop it if you agree to have lunch with me tomorrow.”

Castiel dropped his head backwards and stared at the ceiling for a moment before answering. He was going to say no. He wasn’t interested in his older brother mothering him, even if it had been his job for years. When he straightened to look around the room, his eyes landed on Gabriel, staring imperiously at him from the back of the couch, his face set it his typically unimpressed expression.  

Letting out an explosive breath, Castiel relented. “Fine. Meet me at Daley Plaza around one. And you’d better be buying.”

“It’s a deal. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Warmth filled Michael’s voice when he answered, and Castiel felt a fleeting glimmer of guilt for his reticence.  

* * *

The next day was surprisingly warm for February in Chicago. Castiel chuckled to himself as he recalled the last winter. Weather stations had dubbed it the “Polar Vortex.” He’d been sure the North Pole had chosen to relocate over Chicago, paralyzing the city, and indeed, much of the country, with frigid temperatures. Strange, then, that this year, he had chosen to leave behind his heavy winter coat in favor of his much lighter weight tan trench coat and a scarf.  

He walked to a small raised wall where his brother sat and couldn’t help the smile on his face when he saw the logo on the bag his brother held.  

“You really sprung for the good stuff, Michael. I wouldn’t have hesitated if you’d said you were bringing me food from Heaven.”

Heaven was a local deli famous for the fresh baked bread that it got from the attached bakery next door, The Devil’s Dough.   

Michael chuckled, holding out Castiel’s sandwich to him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”  

The two brothers sat companionably for the first five minutes, not saying much while they ate their food. As he neared the end of his sandwich, Castiel could feel Michael’s desire to pepper him with questions warring with his desire to try and respect his personal space. He rolled his eyes.  

“Get it out, Michael. You know you won’t be happy until you do.”

Michael’s brow furrowed as he looked at his brother and visibly struggled to find the right words.  

“I’m just concerned about you, Castiel. You never talk about any friends. You haven’t mentioned anyone you’re interested in since…,”

“I have a very demanding job,” Castiel said in exasperation, intentionally cutting off Michael’s train of thought. The last thing he wanted was a reminder of his last failed relationship.  

“I know. And I’m proud of you. You did it. You’re a doctor. You’ve worked hard to get where you are and that’s amazing, Castiel. But you have to live your life too. Promise me you’ll do something - even if it’s just going out for drinks with co-workers every now and then.  Achieving a goal and being happy are two different things.”

Castiel looked at the ground in front of him. Michael was right, and more than that, his heart was in the right place. Castiel’s father had died of cancer when Castiel was sixteen, his mother followed not long after of a stroke. Despite all his medical knowledge, he’d always believed that his mother had really died of a broken heart. Michael was eight years his senior.  Despite only just beginning his own career in public relations, he had also taken on the role of caregiver, making sure Castiel not only stayed out of the foster system, but finished school with honors and a full ride to Duke University’s medical school.  

Castiel owed his brother a lot, and he didn’t want to argue with him when he knew Michael was right. Castiel just wasn’t sure what to do about it. He wasn’t an extrovert. Once he made friends, he had no trouble enjoying their company in small settings. Large gatherings and activities with a lot of energy and noise tended to set him on edge. It was one of the reasons he and Crowley had never worked - Crowley had refused to understand that about him.  

In an attempt to lighten the conversation, Castiel decided to change topics.  

“So, how’s Hester?” he asked with a small smile.  

Hester was Michael’s fiancé. They’d started dating in graduate school, but Michael had consistently put off actually proposing for almost a decade. Castiel strongly suspected Michael had waited for him to officially finish his residency, even though it was hardly necessary.  

The deflection worked, Michael’s face breaking into an amused grimace.  

“I’m supposed to meet her after we finish lunch actually. I think she’s dragging me to the florist today. Who knew there were so many choices to be made about a wedding?”

Castiel laughed, glad for his brother. “Well, when it comes to cake, you should just get something from The Devil’s Dough. You’re there so often you can probably get them to -”

Castiel was interrupted by the screeching sound of breaks in front of them. A high-pitched scream filled the air, and Castiel was on his feet running before his brain really registered what was happening. He dimly heard Michael calling his name as he dashed forward.  

A prone figure lay on the ground in front of the bus. The man’s eyes were closed as Castiel rushed forward, shouting, “Move!”

He dropped to his knees in front of the man. His face was covered in blood and badly mangled. Castiel held his breath as he placed his fingers against the man’s neck. There was a pulse, but it was thready.  

“Someone call 911, now.” Castiel shouted to the crowd in general as he performed a quick, but careful examination of the man in front of him. Based on the wetness of his breathing, it was likely a broken rib had punctured one of his lungs, if not worse. Dammit. He didn’t have anything with him; nothing that would help this soul in front of him.

All he could do was cradle the man’s head and hold his hand as he waited for help Castiel knew would come too late.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean preferred being the first one on site. He liked the sense of calm that surrounded him as he looked over the work they had accomplished the day before. Even in the dark before sunrise, he saw the details better than he did when there were a hundred workers clattering around him, doing their thing and demanding his attention in at least twenty directions at once.  Here, in the pre-dawn, he could plan what needed to be done, see the direction they were going. His mind’s eye supplied the finished product and he saw kids running down the streets, moms yelling at them from the doorways to be back in time for dinner. The houses themselves might be a little boring - there were only three basic floor plans to choose from - but he wasn’t just helping to build houses. Colt Construction and Architecture built communities.  

He took pride in that. It might not be exactly the type of architecture he’d dreamed of going into when he was younger, but it _meant_ something. It didn’t really matter anyway. Only Sammy ever tried to push him to focus on what he secretly loved, and he hadn’t talked to his brother in at least three years.  

Dean winced and turned away from the houses and towards his office. Thinking about Sammy on a day his father would be inspecting the site wasn’t the best way to start the morning. He distracted himself by wondering instead whether Lisa had replaced the dwindling stock of coffee in the office.  

Lisa’s official title was Site Office Manager and she did a little bit of everything, from meeting with potential buyers, creating the promotional material, tracking order records, and, inevitably, keeping the office stocked. Dean knew full well they’d be sunk without her.  

Sure enough, once Dean was in the office and rifling through the cupboards he quickly spotted what he was looking for and got the first of many batches of coffee started for the morning.  

By the time Lisa and Bobby had arrived, Dean was on his second cup and the smell of roasted caffeine had filled the small workspace. Lisa shot him a grateful smile as she put her bag down and immediately filled a mug before going to her desk and logging on her computer.

Bobby didn’t bother pouring himself anything before moving to stand in front of Dean.  “So, you’re old man’s coming in today.” He looked at Dean knowingly.

“That’s what I’m told.”

“Any indication as to what time?”

“Bobby, you’ve known my father now, what, thirty years? All I know is that it’s sometime after we break ground on number ten. Hell, you know he’s not gonna to tell me exactly what time to expect him. He gets here when he gets here, and we gotta be ready for him.”

Bobby grunted in acknowledgement.

“He’s going to want to inspect the progress on lot number eighteen and I know we’re gonna catch shit for being behind on number twenty-three.”

“Aw, hell. It ain’t our fault the vendor sent us the wrong fixtures for every bathroom in that house. Ain’t nothin’ my boys can do about it until the replacements arrive.”

“You know that won’t matter,” Dean said with a sigh.

“Well, your daddy will just have to deal. I’m not afraid to give him a piece of my mind if necessary. I’m not going to push my boys any harder than they’re already being pushed. That’s how accidents happen.”

Dean stiffened slightly. “I can handle John fine,” he said, intentionally using his father’s given name.

Bobby muttered something under his breath as he turned towards the door. Dean didn’t catch what it was, nor did he ask.  

In addition to being a three-way partner in the business, Bobby was also an old family friend, and as such, tended to be more liberal with his opinions on how John treated Dean.  

Dean shrugged off the unheard comment. There were many times in his youth when Bobby treated Dean and Sam more like sons than John had. He’d long earned Dean’s respect in a way different from the respect Dean gave his biological father. He sometimes wondered if John saw his sons as his children, or more like apprentices to the business.  

Once Bobby had left, slamming the door behind him, Dean looked up to see Lisa eyeing him consideringly.  

She was more than used to Bobby’s rants, and had seen John’s temper often enough. Whatever her opinions on their relationship - working or otherwise - she wisely kept them to herself.  

“Today’s gonna be rough, huh?” she observed.

Dean huffed a small laugh of acknowledgement at the understatement.  

“Want to go out for drinks after we finish for the day?” The look in her eyes clearly indicated a willingness to push the offer beyond the bounds of office friendship if Dean was interested.

Dean wasn’t sure why he hesitated. He certainly found her attractive. She was smart and independent - both traits he admired. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t considered asking her out in the past, but for some reason, he always stopped just before following through.  

 _Why not,_ he thought. It wasn’t as though he had a good reason for turning her down.  And he knew she was right - he was going to need a drink at the end of today.

He flashed her a smile. “Sounds like a great idea.”

The next few hours seemed to simultaneously creep and fly by. Outside the office, Dean heard the crew arrive and the familiar sounds of the machines as they started up for the day ahead. The groundbreaking went off without a hitch, as Dean knew it would. They had a solid crew here, despite some of the setbacks they’d suffered.  

Dean thought about the arguments he would give his father about the delays on the site.  In reality, they weren’t that bad. Dean knew for a fact that between the two project sites Colt Construction had operating at the moment, his was the closest to the promised delivery date, with the fewest mishaps. Sometimes, Dean wished that mattered.

Across the office, Lisa got up to refill her coffee, passing by the window as she did so.  Dean noticed her stiffen slightly and wince at something outside.  

“What?” he asked.

“John’s here,” she said. “He’s heading towards number twenty three.”  

“ _Shit,_ ” Dean muttered as he stood quickly, pushing his way around his desk and towards the door.  

Outside, he jogged towards the lot in question, hoping to catch John before he went into the house.  

His effort was rewarded as he slowed to a walk, matching John’s strides just as the older man reached the front steps of the wide, as-yet unpainted veranda that wrapped around the front of the two story house.  

John spared a glance at him, but didn’t stop as he continued into the house. “Bobby says you’re behind on this one.”

Dean knew damn well Bobby hadn’t said anything to John before that morning, which meant John had sought out the crew chief before coming to see Dean for an update. He wished that didn’t sting. He was a successful professional in his own right. He didn’t work for John; he outright co-owned the business. He shouldn’t still feel the need for his father’s approval.  

Knowing that didn’t help uncurl the tight knot in his gut as he looked at his father, mask of neutrality in place. He’d long ago learned not to let his father’s barbs show on his face.

“The only things we’re behind on are the bathrooms. We’ve moved forward in other areas, including getting drywall up in the living room and bedrooms, so on those fronts the house is actually ahead. We’re compensating for the loss in time by switching up the order whenever we can. I’ve personally talked to the vendor and have made our standards clear. It shouldn’t happen again.”  

John grunted. “It shouldn’t have happened the first time. Who placed the order?”

“I wrote out the form and Lisa submitted it. We’ve gone back and checked the paperwork - it was necessary to get the vendor to reprocess the order and prove the fault was with them.”

“Well, that’s something. How are the rest of the houses?”

“Everything else is on track, as planned.”  

“Including lot eighteen? It’s the first scheduled for completion. It’s already sold and the family expects to be able to move in in a month.”

“Yes sir. Construction should be finished and ready for the final inspection within ten days.  

John raised his eyebrows. “Ten days? I thought the schedule was for twelve?”

“Yes sir, the weather’s been cooperating with us and we’ve been able to do more of the exterior work earlier than we anticipated.”

John nodded, the closest he was likely to come to showing his approval.  

The rest of the day passed in a similar fashion. John looked closely at the progress on each of the houses, pointing out flaws he saw and nodding at anything that met his satisfaction.  By the time he left, Dean felt worn thin, as though he’d bared his soul for the inspection.  

It was like this every time John came to the site. He’d always been demanding of his boys, especially Dean, but it had only gotten worse when Sam left. Dean knew John blamed him for Sam not sticking around to join the family business.  

“You spoiled him too much as a kid, Dean,” John had once told him. “You filled his head with high class fantasies that have no place in the real world.”

Dean sighed as he pulled the door to his office open, glad to escape the February chill.  

“Well,” Lisa said brightly, “you ready for drinks?”

Dean smiled wearily. Part of him just wanted to go home, but another part of him knew he would be glad for Lisa’s friendly company.  

“Yeah, drinks sound great.”

“Perfect, let me grab my coat and we’ll be out of here.”

The Roadhouse was a bit of a drive - closer to the hospital than the jobsite - but it was Dean’s favorite haunt, helped by the fact that the owner was an old family friend.  

Dean grinned when he saw Jo behind the bar. The only daughter of Ellen Harvelle, owner of the establishment, Jo had been like a sister to him and Sam growing up. She spotted Dean and Lisa at the door and smiled at them. Rather than yell across the bar, she waited until they had taken stools in front of her. “Hey, strangers, what’ll it be tonight?”

“IPA on tap for me, please, Jo,” Dean said with a smile.  

“I’ll have a pilsner, thanks,” added Lisa.  

“Coming right up!” Jo turned and expertly began to fill their order while continuing light banter and rebuffing jesting flirtations with the other patrons that lined the bar. The Roadhouse wasn’t incredibly well known, but it had a devoted clientele, and almost everyone knew everyone else.  

And most men were too terrified of Ellen - the smart ones too afraid of Jo herself - to try any serious passes at the pretty blonde behind the bar.  

“Here ya go. Will you two be ordering food tonight? Or is it just drinks?”

“Jo, I will do nearly anything you ask if you could bring me one of your mother’s cheeseburgers followed by the biggest slice of apple pie you have in this joint.”

Jo laughed at the sincerity in his voice. “Sure thing, what about you, Lisa?”  
Lisa was laughing right along with Jo, shaking her head in dismay at the amount of grease in the order. Dean knew she taught yoga at the local rec center on the weekends for a little extra cash and preferred to stay away from heavier foods as a rule.

“I’ll have a steak salad, Jo - vinaigrette on top please.”

“You got it. I’ll be back in a bit. I gotta take care of these bozos down here.” She tossed a thumb over her shoulder at the opposite end of the bar where Dean saw the mullet headed Ash and the tall, lanky Garth arguing good-naturedly about something or other.  She walked away from them, throwing her rag at the men jokingly to get them to break up their squabble.

“So, how’s Ben doing?” Dean asked, turning to his companion.

Lisa’s face lit up at the mention of her eleven year old son.  

“Great, actually. He was struggling a bit in English at the beginning of the year, and we had a bit of a standoff over Internet privileges for a few weeks. But the grades are back up and he’s already talking about baseball season this spring.”

Dean knew Ben’s father was out of the picture, had been since Ben was about six months old.  But Lisa had brought the kid with her to the site a few times and Dean couldn’t help his fondness for the boy. He was as smart as his mother and interested in every aspect of what they did, from design to construction.

“You know, I played a bit of baseball in high school. Never went beyond that, but if he needs someone to toss a ball around with, I wouldn’t mind.” A part of Dean tensed up at the offer. He really wasn’t sure he wanted something beyond friendship with Lisa, and he didn’t want to give her a false impression, but he was serious. Her kid was a pistol. Hell, he even rocked out to AC/DC. Not many eleven year olds these days had even _heard_ of AC/DC, so Dean had to give him some respect.  

Lisa’s smile got bigger. “Thanks, Dean. You know, Ben adores you. He’ll be over the moon when I tell him.”

Dean smiled back. “Well, he’s a great kid,” he said truthfully, trying to quiet the nerves in his stomach.  

The rest of the evening went smoothly. Jo brought them their food and they laughed back and forth, occasionally joining in on Ash and Garth’s banter while Jo just rolled her eyes.  Dean found he’d had a surprisingly good time. He’d even been able to forget his father’s criticism for a few hours.  

He went home that night content, but exhausted.  

 ****

After the drinks they’d gotten together on his first day, Balthazar had dragged Castiel to the local pub a few times. It was a convenient walk from the hospital, which meant it was also a convenient walk home. That night, Castiel hunched over the bar, nursing a glass. It was the same drink he’d ordered an hour ago. There was a little less in his glass, but he hadn’t really tasted it. Instead, he’d become incredibly familiar with the scars in the wood that made up the countertop. The very air around him seemed muted, as though the bar was mourning the death of a stranger right along with him.  

He was vaguely aware of someone sitting down next to him, but didn’t bother to glance up.

“I heard about Daley Plaza,” Balthazar said, his voice unusually serious.  

Castiel just lifted his head in acknowledgement.

“Look, I know they give you the speech in medical school. Don’t get too attached to the job. Don’t invest too many emotions. I also know it’s bullshit. You can’t do what we do without caring.”

“I should have been able to save him.” Castiel looked back down.  

“No, you shouldn’t have. The man was hit by a bus. You were too far away from any kind of medical equipment that would have given you the slightest chance. You are a doctor. You work with tools. You aren’t a miracle worker, or an angel sent from God. You can’t save a life by tapping them on the head and wishing them well.”  

Balthazar sighed when Castiel continued to study the bar. “Look. Do you have somewhere you can go that makes you happy? Someplace outside the city. Get away for a day. It’s Friday. Take the weekend and leave the job behind. I’m not telling you not to care. Just, find a way to separate yourself.”  

Castiel continued to look down at the counter in silence, but he nodded to indicate he’d heard his colleague. Balthazar clapped him on the shoulder before standing up to wander off, clearly aware that Castiel needed time alone to think.

And he did think. After he’d gone home that night, Castiel stared up at the ceiling and replayed Balthazar’s advice in his head. The only place that came to mind that had ever brought him peace was the lake house. Surely it wouldn’t have rented again so quickly? Even if it had, there wasn’t much development on the lake. He could wander down the shoreline a ways and just let himself meander as he had so many mornings over the past year. With his mind made up, Castiel slowly drifted off into a restless sleep.  

* * *

The next morning, Castiel was up and out of the apartment with the sunrise, despite having spent most the night tossing and turning. As soon as he pointed his hulk of a car in the direction of Maple Lake, he felt his worries start to shed like an excess and ill-fitting second layer.  

As soon as the lake came into view, Castiel breathed a sigh of mixed relief and contentment.  

Wary that someone might have in fact moved into the lake house itself, and also unsure how he felt seeing the house and knowing that it wasn’t home anymore, Castiel chose to park a little ways down the shore, just out of view. There was a rock nearby that he had often come out to sit on and think about God’s plan for him, and whether he actually had any faith in that plan in the long run.  

Today was certainly one of those days that required exactly such introspection. After all, why had God made him a doctor - given him the tools and knowledge to save a life - and then place him in a situation where he could do nothing but watch a man die?  

Had that man had a family? A spouse and children waiting for him at home? Perhaps a brother that was waiting, expecting to meet him for lunch that day as he had met Michael. Castiel hated the sense of helplessness and inadequacy he felt over a situation he _knew_ he didn’t have control over.  

Castiel lost track of how long he sat on the rock. Eventually his mind had expanded beyond his internal turmoil to encompass the natural beauty around him. Echoing from a distance, he heard the chatter and splash of ducks in the reeds, along with the lapping of the water against the pebbles near his feet. If it had been summer, rather than mid February, the hum of the bumblebees as they moved industriously from one plant to the next would add to the chorus.  

Looking up, Castiel realized the sky had grown dimmer. He glanced at his watch and started in surprise. It was close to four o’clock. He’d sat here for most of the day, completely absorbed. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d missed lunch. A fact his stomach was suddenly very happy to confirm with an audible rumble.  

Sighing, Castiel stood up, stretched, and moved back to the car. He supposed his escape was over. It was time for him to head back to reality once again.  

As he pulled the car back onto the road, he couldn’t help his sudden desire to stop by his old house. After all, there was nothing wrong with at least getting a look at it again, simply for the sake of nostalgia.  

As he pulled up in front of the dock, he noted there wasn’t another car parked out front.  From here, he couldn’t tell if the house had been reoccupied. He did notice the flag was up on the mailbox.  

Recalling the letter he himself had placed inside, he wondered if it was the same, or a new piece of mail penned by the next tenant. Well, at least it was a way to find out if the place had been rented. Since he had no intention of _reading_ the letter if it wasn’t his, it wasn’t exactly a crime to look at whom it was addressed to.  

Nonetheless, Castiel felt the need to glance around surreptitiously in case someone were to jump out of the bushes and call him out on his nosiness.  

When he opened the door of the mailbox, he was relieved, and yet, surprisingly disappointed to realize it was indeed his letter. He was about to shut the door again, when he realized that while it might be the same letter, it had clearly been opened.  

Frowning, Castiel reached inside and pulled out the envelope. Sure enough, the top had been torn open. The tear was clean, as though someone had slit it with a pocketknife rather than simply inserting a finger under the flap.  

Pulling out the page itself, Castiel flipped it over to discover a short message on the back.

****

Castiel stared at the words on the page, but they didn’t make much sense to him. He huffed out an irritated breath. He hadn’t realized the owner was selling when he left. He wasn’t sure why that bothered him. He had moved to be closer to the hospital for a reason, but there was something about this house…

In any case, the new owner seemed to have been misinformed on a few points. Castiel didn’t really want to push it, but this was an inexplicably frustrating end to an otherwise good day. He didn’t want to lose that.  

Beneath the short message on the back, Castiel wrote his response and carefully replaced the letter back into the box before climbing back into his car and driving towards reality.  

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean woke Saturday morning with the house full of sunlight. He was a bit surprised. His normally early schedule rarely let him sleep past sunrise, even when he had nowhere to be. He blinked into the brightness, guessing it had to be somewhere around ten a.m..  

Instead of immediately getting up, he took a moment to catalogue what he needed to do during the upcoming day. He’d gotten a little further in the process of settling in over the course of the previous week, setting up his bedroom and getting a couch in place.  His focus had still been more towards renovation and repair than filling it with things. Dean didn’t have that much to call his own anyway. Buying furniture would take time. Since he didn’t entertain much, it wasn’t really his top priority.  

Dean glanced out the window and realized the day, while probably cold - it was February in Chicago - was close to perfect. If he wanted to get started on any exterior projects, today would be ideal. After all, who knew when another good weekend would come around?  

Groaning a little, he rolled out of bed and stretched. He winced as he felt various muscles twinge and joints pop. He was only twenty-six, but working on a construction from the time he’d reached his teens had taken a toll on his body and he felt every year.  

He scratched his stomach as he dug through the duffle bag at the foot of his bed for clean clothes. He told himself at some point, he’d get around to putting them in the dresser he planned to refurbish. Might actually be something he could do today. He eyed the worn down piece of furniture speculatively. He’d gotten it cheap at a thrift store, but it was still solid wood.  All it really needed was a sanding and a new coat of varnish. He had the materials for both, and the weather would ensure he could let it dry outside. Nodding to himself, he pulled on a clean pair of work jeans and a Henley before heading out to find breakfast.  

It was several hours later and he’d already dragged the dresser out and sanded it down before the flag on the mailbox caught his eye. Dean never expected much in the way of mail so he didn’t make it a habit to check everyday. Not like he’d ever really had a mailbox or permanent address to worry about in that regard anyway. But he was pretty sure the mailman should have at least come by and put the flag down - even if he’d left the letter he’d written open and unmailable.  

Curious, Dean sat down his sandpaper and moved to the mailbox to look inside. Instead of the envelope, this time, Dean found a simple, folded sheet of paper. Apparently, the former tenant had stopped by and written a response.  

****

Dean looked at the letter in confusion. Now he _knew_ this Cas guy was off his rocker. He jogged inside to grab a pen to write an immediate response. Part of him wondered when Cas came by to check the box. Maybe, if he came by today, Dean would get to meet him. For some reason, as crazy as the guy was, Dean was intrigued.

 ****

Castiel didn’t know why he kept going back to the lake house. If the response to his letter was any indication, the place had already been rented again. _Sold_ , Castiel reminded himself, somewhat regretfully. He really wasn’t sure what difference it made.  

All he knew was that it was Monday, and Castiel was driving back out to Maple Lake again, pulled by whatever mysterious power the calming waters had on him. It would have made more sense to come out on the weekend. For some reason, Castiel had resisted logic. Now, here he was, making the commute he had moved into the city to avoid, because he needed the peace he found here.  

The week prior had been generally uneventful. He’d had lunch with Michael a few more times, though, by unspoken agreement, neither had suggested meeting at Daley Plaza. His cases at the hospital were routine - mundane even. Balthazar successfully convinced him to join him for drinks at The Roadhouse Friday night. It had been quiet and Balthazar filled the silence easily. All Castiel had to do was respond at the appropriate times. The companionship, as one sided as it was, had been nice. He could tell Balthazar had made it his mission to pull Castiel out into the world as much as Michael. Even though he hated the idea, he enjoyed Balthazar’s presence. The man had an energy that was infectious and friendly. He didn’t push and was perfectly happy to take on the larger half of socializing, so long as Castiel was _there_.  

Today though, he wanted to escape. To find the quiet place that he considered his, even if it really wasn’t. Not anymore.  

This time, he didn’t hesitate before pulling up to the house. Perhaps whoever had bought the place was there. Maybe he could meet this Dean face-to-face to make sure his mail was delivered. It wasn’t that he wanted to make sure the new owner would love the lake house like he did. That wouldn’t make sense, and was entirely irrelevant.  

A glance around made him suspect there was no one home. He didn’t see a car parked out front, nor did there appear to be any movement from inside or around the house.  

He did notice, however, that the flag was raised on the mailbox. Curious, Castiel walked over and opened the door. Reaching inside, he pulled out the folded piece of paper he recognized as his own. Feeling slightly disappointed, he opened up the page, only to find a tight, neat scrawl across the bottom of the page beneath his own messy script.

****

Castiel huffed out a breath of annoyance and dug a pen out of his coat pocket.

 ****

He stuffed the piece of paper back into the mailbox and decided to take a walk around the lake.

He hadn’t made it more than twenty steps when a creaking noise sounded from behind him. Castiel spun around, as though hoping to catch the reclusive Dean in the act. Instead, he saw the flag on the mailbox lower on it’s own.  

Castiel watched the mailbox, standing as though transfixed. For a moment, nothing happened. His eyes widened and his mouth opened to form a small _o_ shape as the flag lifted again of its own accord.  

With a slight tremor under his skin, too fine to be noticed by anyone but himself, Castiel slowly walked back towards the mailbox. Hesitating a bit, he pulled the door open and peered inside.  

He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find. He felt tense, as though something might jump out at him unexpectedly. Instead, all he saw was the folded piece of paper. He reached inside to pull it out. The mailbox was old. It was probably just the wind.  

He resolutely ignored the fact that there was absolutely no wind to speak of around him at the moment.  

Looking at the letter, Castiel realized it now contained a new message written on the outside of the fold.  

 

Castiel huffed in irritation.   _Fine_ , he thought, _you want to play this game?_

He stalked back to his car where he had discarded his scarf. From all accounts, he wouldn’t need it again this winter, but if memory served him correctly, this Dean from 2013 would find it far more useful.  

Castiel opened the back door and reached over the seat to grab the woolen wad of colorful material and a small notepad.  

He did a quick search on his phone to make sure he had his dates right before jotting down a response. Then he stuffed the letter and the scarf into the mailbox together. Without waiting to see if the flag would move again on it’s own - _It_ _couldn’t, right?  That wasn’t possible_ \- Castiel climbed back behind the wheel and drove off, determined not to return.  

 ****

An hour or two after he’d responded to Cas’ last note, Dean finally decided he was done with the dresser; at least with what he could do for now. The various drawers were arrayed over a ground cloth he’d spread across the lawn. The first layer of varnish had been meticulously applied and all he could do now was wait. He looked around, trying to decide his next project, when his gaze fell on the mailbox.  

It really _did_ need a new coat of paint. Dean told himself it had nothing to do with wanting to be near the mailbox in case the mysterious _Castiel_ decided to come by and check for a response. After all, he’d be able to see him just as clearly from the dock, and that sorely needed a new coat of paint too. Dean just wanted to paint the mailbox.  

One of the benefits of working on an active construction site was the access to paint and paint samples. Vendors frequently gave them free cans the way many businesses hand out free pens in an attempt to garner business. It was never enough for a whole project, so Dean’s company often created concept boards for potential buyers to see what the colors would look like on a wall. The rest were either tossed or taken home by those on site.  

Dean had started stockpiling the colors he thought would best fit the small areas he needed for his personal project, mostly greens and browns. He wanted the place to feel like it was a part of nature rather than something to stand dominating over it. For the mailbox though, his eyes were drawn to the lone can of blue. He wasn’t sure why he’d even decided to bring it home, beyond thinking the color felt rather calming. He shrugged and picked it up. There was only about a half a can left in it anyway, it wouldn’t be enough for anything other than the mailbox. Especially if he did a proper job and added two coats.  

Grabbing the supplies he’d need, Dean headed out. Soon, he was engrossed in the task. While painting and staining might be monotonous work, Dean enjoyed it. The work was not only soothing, it was immediately satisfying. Taking something old and worn down and making it look new again with a few, even brushstrokes. This was what he loved the most, restoration. Bringing back life to things that others had thrown away. It was the biggest element of architecture Dean and his father failed to see eye to eye on. Dean loved the bones of things.  Seeing the grandeur of what something had been, celebrating those stories, but then taking something from the past and giving it a future. Fixing the broken. It wasn’t just buildings. Dean loved to tinker and restore anything he could get his hands on; old radios, watches, even his father’s beat up Chevy had found new life through his hands.  

John didn’t see the appeal. Once something was used up, he felt it should be discarded.  He wouldn’t throw away something that still worked - hell the man still used a cell phone from 2005 - but once it broke beyond simple repair, it was time to move on and clear the space for something new, something that worked without any kinks. _Without any character_ , Dean thought, though he quickly disregarded it. The type of work he was doing with Colt Construction might be simple - a change here or there to a preset floor plan - but it had value. It wasn’t up to him to bring character to the houses he built. That honor belonged to the families who actually made it a home.  

Dean was so lost in thought; he almost dropped the paintbrush when the flag on the mailbox suddenly moved into the downward position.

“The hell?” he muttered, taking a step back.  Had he accidently hit it? Was the screw holding it up loose?  

Putting down the brush, Dean moved around to examine the flag more closely. A gentle nudge told him the screw wasn’t really loose enough to make the flag just drop, but tightening it up couldn’t hurt. Pulling a rag from his back pocket, Dean wiped his hands clean as he walked towards the house to get his screwdriver from his toolkit.  

When he came back out, he looked at the mailbox and let out a string of expletives.

“Dude, c’mon, really?” he said to the golden cat standing, looking very pleased with himself on top of Dean’s newly painted - and still wet - mailbox.  

He didn’t move as Dean approached, his strange, tawny eyes just watching intently.  Dean could swear the damn thing was laughing at him.  

“Get off, you nuisance.” The cat didn’t budge. Just as Dean got within arm’s length, two things happened at once. The flag on the mailbox lifted _on it’s own_ and the cat jumped down, bouncing off the post as he did.  Dean stared unbelieving at the perfect set of blue paw prints left behind.  

“Damn trickster cat. Ain’t no way this is real.”  

Tail high, the cat sauntered off down the dock, leaving a trail of blue paw prints behind him.

Ignoring the cat, Dean set his tools down, opened the mailbox and looked inside.  

There was something bulky stuffed into the box, but Dean couldn’t tell what it was.  Reaching in carefully to avoid touching the paint, he started to pull. And kept pulling. It appeared to be a scarf, knitted, multi-colored, and _very_ long. By the time Dean recovered the whole thing, he realized he could wrap it around his neck and it still trailed on the ground.  

It was only by looking in bewilderment at the end of the scarf that Dean even noticed the loose sheet of paper he had knocked to the ground.  

 

Dean read the letter through again before looking at the scarf around his neck. The scarf that was most decidedly _not_ in the mailbox when he’d checked it earlier. He’d only been in the house getting his tools for a minute. How on earth had this Cas managed to drive up, put everything in a wet mailbox and leave again without him noticing?  

And how the _hell_ had Cas known about those paw prints on the post?  It had to be a coincidence. There had been paw prints before that had been cleaned off. The damn cat had just added more. Had to be it.  

Dean looked up at the clear sky above him. The day was seasonably cold, nothing unusual. It was rare they had deep snow in March. And they hadn’t had nine inches all _year_.  The forecasters had actually been running stories on kids lamenting the lack of snow for sledding this year. He seriously doubted they’d be getting two storms back to back this late in the season.  

Shaking his head, Dean decided he wasn’t going to respond this time. He dropped the flag back down and wrapped the scarf more fully around his neck before tightening the screw and putting on a second layer of paint, paying close attention to the area on top smudged by the damn cat.  At least there weren’t bits of hair all in the paint.  


	5. Chapter 5

Dean shoved the scarf into his front closet and decided to ignore it. Cas was crazy.  That’s all there was to it.  

He managed to get a few more chores done Sunday, and Monday passed at the site without incident - until Dean walked out to the Impala to find a tall moose of a man leaning against the driver side door, looking intently at his phone.  

Dean stopped in his tracks momentarily. A flood of emotions washed through him, and he honestly wasn’t quite sure how to sort them out. Joy at seeing his little brother again was certainly somewhere near the top, but it was mixed with concern that something was wrong - why else would Sam come find him - and anger that tasted almost like betrayal. After all, Sam’s argument had been with their dad, but he’d cut Dean out of his life just as effectively.  

“I feel like I should grab my camera. If I sold proof of the elusive Sasquatch to the tabloids, I could probably make a killing,” Dean quipped, deciding to try and keep his reaction light rather than bother figuring out what he was feeling.

Sam’s head shot up, and seemed to almost instinctively fall into a bitch face at the comment. When he spotted his brother though, his expression cleared. Dean thought he detected a flicker of something akin to cautious hope in Sam’s eyes before he settled on a small neutral smile. “Hey, Dean.”

“To what do I owe this rare and unexpected pleasure?” Dean asked, pasting a smirk on his face, despite the itch he felt under his skin to pull his baby brother into a hug.  

Sam flinched at the nonchalant tone in Dean’s voice. “I was hoping maybe we could go somewhere? You know, just talk? I haven’t seen you in ages, man.”

Dean barely managed to bite back a retort asking whose fault that was, but the last thing he wanted to do was to chase Sammy off when he hadn’t seen him in going on four years.  

“Sure, got a place in mind? Or is the Roadhouse still good enough for you?” He mentally kicked himself, trying to remember his goal _wasn’t_ to drive Sam away this time. Still it was hard to hide the hurt of being left behind.  

Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes momentarily as though centering himself before looking Dean square in the eye and giving a short, terse nod. “The Roadhouse sounds great. Ellen still own the place?”

Dean opened the door to the Impala as Sam walked around the hood towards the passenger side. “Yep, she’s got Jo working behind the bar now too. Girl’s a spitfire. And makes a fortune in tips.”

A quick, easy laugh erupted from Sam as a genuine smile spread across his face. “I gotta say, that doesn’t surprise me at all. Bet she makes even more at the pool table though.”

“Some things never change,” Dean said in acknowledgement.  

He leaned over to turn the key in the ignition, but paused before he actually started the engine. “It’s good to see you, Sammy.”

Sam glanced down at his hands where they lay flat on the tops of his thighs, and gave two short, tight nods. Still not looking up at Dean, he said, “Yeah - you too.”

Nodding to himself, Dean turned the key, put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot.  

 ****  


Castiel had made his final rounds and clocked out for the day. Rather than taking the most efficient route to exit the hospital, his feet took him on the familiar path to the pediatric oncology wing. It was late, and most of the kids were already asleep. He knew one in particular wouldn’t be though.  

Sure enough, Anna was sitting up in her bed, attention fixed on the book on her lap. Her eyes moved rapidly back and forth across the page as she devoured the words in front of her.  

A small smile played about Castiel’s lips as he watched her, unnoticed. Anna’s parents rarely made time to visit her. From what he had been able to gather about her situation, the family had been loving and supportive, up until the point Anna had gotten sick. Both parents worked, and while that wasn’t uncommon, neither seemed able or willing to make the time to spend with Anna. She didn’t particularly need to be in the hospital, but her care did require regular attention, and it seemed easier for her parents to admit her than for one of them to take the time to stay at home with her.  

The first time she had been included in Castiel’s rounds, he’d found the girl staring with glazed eyes at the television screen, clearly not taking in the dramatic proceedings of Escalando.  He doubted she even spoke Spanish and there were no subtitles at the bottom of the screen.  

“Suicido…, well, I guess it’s adios amigo,” Cas said attempting some of what he termed _Balthazar humor_. “Not that it seems to matter. From what I’ve been able to tell, no one ever really stays dead on this show.”

Anna tore her gaze away from the screen and blinked rapidly as her attention shifted to the doctor.

“Huh?” she asked

Castiel nodded at the screen, his eyebrows raised.

“Oh, yeah, I don’t really watch it. But it’s conversation, you know? There’s not much on during the day. Nothing else to do in here anyway.”  

“Do you have any schoolwork you could be doing?” Castiel knew there were homebound programs for many of the long-term patients to keep them from getting too far behind their classmates.  

Anna shrugged. “Ms. Blake gives me all my work at the beginning of the week. It doesn’t take long. Like I said, not much to do.”

Castiel pursed his lips as he considered her for a moment. He was pretty sure he had a few non-medical books stashed in his office he thought might fit Anna’s tastes based on their few conversations. “Hold that thought,” he said to a befuddled looking teen.  

While he’d mostly settled into his role in the hospital, Castiel still hadn’t taken the time to fully organize his office and properly fill his bookshelves. It took a little shuffling of files, journals, and his favorite coffee mug – the oversized one with the bees and the wide handle that fit just right in his hand – before he’d found what he was looking for, but five minutes later, Castiel returned to Anna’s room triumphant.  

He walked in carrying the book as though it was the Olympic torch and from the way Anna’s eyes lit up, it might have been.  

“Whoa, is that Song of Ice and Fire?” Anna asked, her voice quieting almost reverentially as her eyes opened wide.  

“The one and only! I’m really hoping you’ve already read the rest of the series, or letting you borrow this won’t do much good. It was the only book I had on hand.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “Duh. Watch the show too, although, don’t tell Mom and Dad. They don’t think it’s _appropriate._ ” She put a special emphasis on the last word clearly showing her disdain for her parent’s opinions regarding her television viewing choices.  

“I asked for this for Christmas, but no luck. It’s not like I’ve been able to just run out to the store to pick up my own copy.”

“Well, consider this my contribution to your teenaged delinquency,” Castiel said, heart warming a bit when Anna let out a bright peel of laughter.

* * *

After that, Castiel had made it a point to bring in new books. Some were from his personal collection, others he made a special trip to the library for, and occasionally, he found a book while browsing Barnes and Noble that he sensed his young patient might enjoy. Those often wound up in his stack at the register.  

He looked at the cover of the book she had picked up today. It was Jane Austen’s, Persuasion.  

Castiel must have made a small noise alerting Anna to his presence, because her head shot up without warning.  He worried a little about interrupting her book, but she smiled at him anyway.

“Hi, what’s up Doc?” Her grin grew as she delivered the cliché question.

Castiel rolled his eyes. As woefully ignorant as he was of most pop culture, in his line of work, he couldn’t have escaped the iconic Bugs Bunny question if he tried.

“Original, Anna, and not much. I was getting ready to check out for the day and I thought I’d stop by to see how you were doing.”

She held up the book. “Oh, you know, getting lost in the scandal and intrigue of Regency England.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. And what do you think so far?”

Anna looked down, a wistful expression stealing over her features as she gazed at the century old words in her lap.  

“I kinda get how she feels.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, her family doesn’t seem to care for her all that much, do they? They’re constantly wanting her to be somewhere else.  Or to be some _one_ else.”  

Castiel didn’t say anything. He hadn’t really thought of the parallels Anna might draw between herself and the protagonist, though he probably should have.

Anna laughed humorlessly. “We even basically have the same name.”

Castiel moved further into the room and pulled up a chair before sitting down.

“Yes, I can see how you might have a lot in common with Anne.”

Anna looked up at him.

“You’re right, her family doesn’t seem to appreciate her the way they should. But despite her family’s deficiencies, she remains kind, hopeful, and strong.”

Anna snorted. “Strong? If she were strong she wouldn’t have let her friend convince her to dump the guy she loves. She keeps giving in to everyone. How is that strong?”

“Sometimes strength isn’t obvious. Sometimes it comes from a place you don’t know exists when you least expect it. Keep reading. I think you’ll like Anne in the end.”

“She’s alone. She spent all those years waiting for this guy, who’s clearly moved on. I don’t think I’d want to wait if I had the choice. I don’t think I’d choose to be alone.”

“Maybe. Sometimes, though, patience will out.”

Patting Anna’s hand, Castiel stood and grabbed his trench coat from the back of the chair, leaving her to read in peace.   

 ****

It was well after midnight when Ellen finally kicked the brothers out and told them to go home. The majority of the evening had been spent munching on a series of different appetizers, nursing a few beers, and avoiding any topics that might set off unknown landmines.  

As they headed back out, Dean realized since Sam had ridden with him, his car was still back at the job site.  

“So man, what do want to do? You gonna come home and crash with me tonight? Or you want me to take you back to your car?” Dean asked Sam as he leaned over the roof of the Impala. He narrowed his eyes sharply. “Where are you stayin’ anyway?”

Sam shrugged and glanced off to the side, decidedly not making eye contact with Dean.  “I dunno really. Just got to town today. You were my first stop. Hadn’t really gotten a chance to make plans yet.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Get in, bitch. You’re crashing with me tonight. And don’t think that just because you’re a Sasquatch, I’m not gonna make you sleep on the couch.”

Sam smirked, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he met his brother’s eye. “Jerk,” he said, tilting his chin up in acknowledgement.  

They clambered into the car; the atmosphere easier than it had been all night. Dean was already contemplating calling Bobby in the morning to take the day off. It’s not like he ever used his vacation time and he never got sick. He could afford to take a day.  

He mentally checked himself from visibly wincing at the thought of what John would say if he found out. Dean pushed it aside. His brother was in the car next to him and he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.  

Sam was looking out the passenger window, his brow furrowing as they drove away from the city.

“So where are we going?” Sam asked, his voice suspiciously light.  

Dean glanced over at him, not fooled for a second. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to see Dad. I bought my own place. A fixer upper. Still working on it.”

“Kinda far out of the city isn’t it?”

Now it was Dean’s turn to avoid Sam’s gaze. He kept his eyes glued to the road as he responded, “Yeah, I, uh,” he paused to clear his throat, “uh, bought a lake house.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Dean, Lake Michigan is in the other direction.”

“Yeah, no, I uh... I bought a house on Maple Lake.” He said the last portion of this confession quickly, as though trying to rip off a Band-Aid.

“Holy shit, Dean. _Maple_ Lake? Shit, you didn’t buy _a_ lake house, did you?”

Dean frowned. “What the hell do you mean? It’s a house and it’s on a lake.”

“Cut the crap, Dean, you know what I mean. You bought _the_ lake house. The one Dad built Mom. The one where…”

“Yeah, the one where Mom left him.”

Silence fell over the car, each brother momentarily lost in his own thoughts.  

“Does it look the same?” Sam asked quietly.  

Dean shrugged. “For the most part. I mean it’s pretty run down. There haven’t been too many tenants over the years. Everybody wants a house out on the Great Lake. No one thinks to look inland much. It’s mostly just in need of standard maintenance.”

Sam just nodded. Dean knew it wouldn’t have mattered much to Sam anyway. He’d only been six months old when they’d moved out of the house. He didn’t have memories of Mary baking pies in the oven, or learning how to swim by jumping off the dock wearing bright orange arm floaties and a dinosaur life jacket.  

It was almost two in the morning when they finally pulled up in front of the house. Dean turned off the ignition and they sat in the car, listening to the engine tick as it cooled down.  

“Well, I don’t know what we’re still doin’ out here, man. It’s friggin’ freezing. Let’s get inside. I’ll get you another beer and you can start complaining about how uncomfortable the couch is.”  

Sam huffed a small laugh as he turned towards Dean with a half smile and soft eyes.  “Yeah, man. That sounds good.”

They moved around each other well, years of living in close quarters coming back to them instinctively. Dean scrounged up a spare set of sheets for the couch, tossing them to Sam to make it up while he went to grab more beer from the fridge.  

“Doesn’t living in a glass house bother you?” Sam asked.  

“Nah, not really. I like being able to see what’s around me. ‘Sides,” he spoke around a sip of beer, “I thought you liked this kind of architecture. Very avant-garde.”

Sam frowned and Dean could have kicked himself. “Dude, that wasn’t meant to be an insult, I swear. I’m just sayin’ it’s not like this is what Dad’s building today. You guys have a lot more in common than you’d think.”

“Something just doesn’t feel _right_ about this place though. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”

Dean sighed. This was something he’d been tossing around in his head for a while now. Long before he’d actually moved in. The house had been calling to him for years.

“Dad never could get this place quite right,” Dean said slowly. It was a hard thing for him to admit out loud. He’d been trained that his father was _always_ right. Even Sam seemed surprised at the confession, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, and the bottle paused halfway to his lips as he waited for Dean to continue.

“Mom wanted to get away from the city. This was supposed to be for her. She was a small town farm girl. Chicago and the art world weren’t where she was happy.” Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze turned toward the glass wall, but not seeing through it.  

“What happened? What went wrong?” Sam asked. It was the same question he’d asked hundreds of times. In the past, Dean had always deflected. Never wanted to feel like he was choosing between his parents, saying one was right over the other. He wasn’t sure what had changed now. Maybe it was because Sam had already made his choice and left. Maybe it was because he’d come back.

“She tried, man. She really did. Back then Dad had all these _visions_. Kinda like you, now.”

Sam frowned and Dean put up his hands quickly, placating his brother.

“I don’t mean that as a bad thing, dude. I told you, you guys are more alike than you’d think. I know you two don’t get along - ever wonder if that might be _why?_ ”

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Anyway, Dad was working for this big time firm - Roman Enterprises I think. Long hours. He was determined to make a mark on the Chicago skyline. To make a difference in how people saw the city. Problem was, Mom started to feel like he never really saw _us_.  After a while, she couldn’t take it anymore and she left.”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he tried to puzzle through Dean’s story. “But what does that have to do with the house?”

“Mom wanted to be a part of nature. To experience it. This house does exactly the opposite. It separates you from nature. Cuts you off. You can see it, but you can’t touch it. It’s about control rather than freedom.”

Sam shook his head. “I still don’t get it, Dean. With all of that, why the hell would you want to buy this place?”

“This was something Dad couldn’t do on his own. I think he wants us to finish it for him.  You know, pick up where he left off. ‘Creating a vision, building a home...the family business.” Dean smirked as Sam joined in, rolling his eyes, on the last portion of Colt Construction’s slogan.  

They were silent for a few minutes after that.

“You think you can do it?”

“I don’t know. I know I want to. There’s something about this place. I can’t even explain it. It’s like it’s calling to me. I think I need to finish it. There’s so much potential here, ya know?”

“Dean. Why are you still working for Dad?”

“Come on Sammy, not this again.”

“No, Dean, I’m serious! Look, I finish my degree in the spring. Why can’t we do it?”

Dean snorted. “It’s not gonna happen, Sammy. It was a pipedream.”

“No, Dean. Resurrection Restoration! It was _your_ dream. Not Dad’s. That doesn’t make it a pipedream. We could open a place together, just like we talked about when we were kids. Specialize in old spaces! I take on the clients that want the more modern styles; you take on the classic refurbishments. You can work on the things you love. Bringing older things back to life again.”

It hit a nerve, but Dean wasn’t willing to let Sam see that.

“I know what I’m doing right now might not be seen as sophisticated as what your fancy degree is going to let you do. And I might not be making the big bucks like you’re going to be doing in even a year. But there’s still value in the construction I do.”

“Dean! That’s not what I - you know what? Never mind. I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight. Look, it’s late. The bed’s made up. Let’s just… let’s just go to sleep and we’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Dean gave Sam a grim, half smile that didn’t reach his eyes, cocking his head slightly to the side in acknowledgement. “Sounds like a great idea.”

He stood up and hit the lights as he moved to leave.  

As the room went dark, the lake was still illuminated by the light spilling from Dean’s bedroom.  

“Huh,” Sam said, surprise clear in his voice.

Dean turned back, “What?”

“It’s snowing.”

Dean’s head whipped around to look outside. With the lights off, he could see out where he hadn’t been able to before.  

Sure enough, white flakes drifted down towards the lake’s surface. The grass on the shore was already covered with at least an inch and a half and the precipitation showed no signs of stopping. Looked like he wouldn’t have to call out in the morning after all.

Something niggled in the back of his brain.  Something he’d disregarded and had been determined to forget.  

“Sam, what’s the date?”

“Uh, the twenty-fifth? No wait, I guess technically it’s the twenty-sixth, why?”

“Son of a bitch.”


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel made it until Thursday afternoon before he found himself driving back out to the lake house. He couldn’t even fully explain to himself why he wasn’t waiting one more day and going on the weekend. A small voice in the back of his head whispered the date and he could admit a fleeting, if irrational, curiosity about what he might find in the mailbox. It wasn’t as though he actually believed Dean was writing to him from the year 2013 after all.  

_And yet…_

When Castiel broke through the trees to pull up to the house, it looked as abandoned as it had since he’d first moved out. No signs of Dean or anyone else trying to make a life there.  

The flag to the mailbox was, predictably, raised. By now, the sight had become customary and Castiel wasn’t surprised. He pulled the car directly up to the mailbox itself and opened the small door.  

His scarf was no longer inside. Instead, there was a single sheet of paper, yellow with a double red line down the side and jagged at the top, as though it had been ripped hastily from a legal pad. The typically neat, tight handwriting was now messy and slanted far to the right as though the person writing was in something of a panic.

 

 

Castiel smiled. What indeed? Did it really have to be something to be frightened of though? He turned to find a pen to respond to Dean.  

Castiel realized he must have subconsciously hoped for Dean to write back. He didn’t remember grabbing the pad of paper and pen from his office on the way out, but it was sitting waiting for him on the passenger seat.  

Using the pad as a surface, Castiel scribbled his reply on the same paper Dean had left him, just below the other man’s message.

 

He stuck the reply back in the mailbox and lifted the flag. He barely had time to move his hand away before it slammed down again, hard. Apparently Dean was waiting for him.  

It took a few minutes, but soon the flag rose up again, seemingly on its own. Castiel wished he could picture the man on the other side. Was he older? Younger? Attractive? Maybe he was a complete slob, sixty years old, and balding. Right now, it didn’t matter. Whatever this was, it was different and exciting. He opened the door and reached in for the letter.

 

 

Castiel huffed a laugh. Ok. So maybe it was a little predictable too.  

 

Again the flag immediately came down, thus beginning one of the oddest conversations of Castiel’s life.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Castiel reread the most recent message from Dean and felt a fluttering in his midsection.  He wasn’t a teenager. He recognized the symptoms of attraction. He just couldn’t figure out for the life of him how on earth he could be attracted to Dean. In reality, he knew almost nothing about the man. After all, this was really only the first day they had truly opened what could be considered a correspondence, despite their earlier messages back and forth. It wasn’t like he’d ever met him. Aside from Dean’s brief description, Castiel didn’t even have an idea of what Dean looked like.

And then of course, he couldn’t overlook the fact that Dean was writing him from two years in the past.  

Castiel shut down the unwelcome reminder as soon as it passed through his mind. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t keep flirting with a man he had no hope of ever meeting. If he didn’t know better, Castiel would be sure he intentionally sought out relationships that were doomed from the start.  

Cas crumpled the page he and Dean had been trading back and forth slightly in his hand as he turned and stomped back to his car. This was ridiculous and he couldn’t do it anymore. He _wouldn’t_ do it any more.  

Yanking the door open, he slipped into the driver’s seat, throwing a dark look at the mailbox as he did. Tossing the letter to the passenger’s side, he buckled his seatbelt and reached out to start the ignition.  

Before he twisted the key to flip over the engine, he caught himself glancing at the letter again. Castiel sighed and slumped his shoulders, his head dropping to the top of the steering wheel.  

It just wasn’t logical.  

Tentatively, he reached out and smoothed the crinkled paper gently, glanced over at the mailbox one more time, eyes softer, and started his car.  

He didn’t look back as he drove away.  

Dean waited for a response. He’d been waiting most of the afternoon actually. As soon as the snow stopped, he and Sam had managed to dig out the dock. When they finished -  both men dripping with sweat from shoveling the damp, heavy snow - Sam gave him a wave goodbye, saying he had things to do in the city. Dean took comfort in his brother’s promise to return that night.

Since he didn’t have his own car, Dean gave him the keys to the Impala. After making Sam swear under threat of a haircut that he wouldn’t get a scratch on her, of course.  

“C’mon, Dean. We grew up in Chicago. It’s not like I don’t know how to drive in the snow.”

“Still, not a scratch. Treat her like your first-born.”

“Oh my God, Dean. Just give me the keys already.”

“Bitch,” Dean said, dropping the keys into Sam’s outstretched hand.

“Jerk,” Sam replied with a small, fond smile.  

As soon as the Impala’s taillights disappeared around the curve, Dean had dashed inside to retrieve Cas’ scarf, still stuffed unceremoniously in the closet. He had to give the guy props. The scarf looked authentically like a Doctor Who scarf rather than one of the cheap, short knockoffs you could get on fan sites. At least nine feet of genuine wool, he gratefully wrapped it around his neck before stepping back out into the frigid air with a chair under his arm.  

He plopped the seat unceremoniously on the ground in front of the mailbox before kicking himself and running back inside for a pad of paper and pen. Dashing off a quick note, he stuck it in the mailbox making sure to deliberately lift the flag.   

The next three hours proved to be pretty boring as he waited for the little piece of red metal to move. He didn’t even know if Cas was going to come today. It’s not like the guy actually lived at the lake house anymore. He had to have a job, and it was in the middle of the week.  

Despite that, Dean couldn’t pull himself away.

He was seriously contemplating going inside for a bathroom break when the flag finally moved.

When it returned to its upright position, Dean let out a huge breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.  

Cautiously reaching inside the box, he laughed at the brief, three-word response. What had he expected? A dissertation on mailboxes that somehow managed to bend the rules of time?  

What followed was possibly one of the strangest conversations of his life. Despite that, he found his anticipation growing with each note passed back and forth. There was something about Cas that was both frustrating and endearing. Dean just wanted to get to know this man a little better. What kept drawing him out to the lake house?

Now, after two hours of messaging back and forth, Dean waited for Cas’ response to the revelation that he too was single.  

They had both been undeniably flirting throughout the exchange, but flat out admitting there was no one waiting for him inside felt like a confession that might change the nature of their conversation. Dean wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.  

He also didn’t really want to think too hard on what this _thing_ was, preferring instead to live in the moment.  

But the response never came.

The flag went down, but never came back up.

Maybe Cas just needed some time to think of how to respond.  

Dean waited for another thirty minutes before admitting defeat. Picking up the chair, he headed back into the house. When Sammy returned, he had a Dutch oven full of homemade vegetable stew simmering away on the stove, while he sat at the kitchen table with his sketch pad, idly drawing the lake house from various perspectives as it stood now, with the hopes of gaining inspiration for how he wanted to alter it in the future.  

Though, now that he thought about it, he wondered if he’d ever really succeed.  Apparently he wasn’t going to be staying in the house long if Cas was going to move here in less than a year.  

So much for his hopes of building a permanent home. He wondered what might happen in the future to make him change his mind and move out.

“Smells great in here, Dean. Is that Mom’s soup on the stove?”

“Yeah. She always made it when it snowed. Seemed appropriate. Besides. I had a bunch of veggies in the freezer. It was easy to put together.”

Sam nodded and shrugged as though the reasoning itself didn’t matter.

“You sure you’re ok with me crashing here for a bit?”

“As long as you don’t mind the couch, I don’t have a problem with it. Haven’t managed

to find time to get a bed for the second room yet. It’s kinda nice having you around again.”

“I’ve missed you, Dean,” Sam said, his eyes serious.

“Oh, c’mon, man. I said it was nice having you here. Don’t go all chick flick on me now,” Dean groaned.  

Sam just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“So, you plannin’ on seeing Dad at all while you’re here? Or is this a ‘here and gone’ kinda thing?” Dean asked, his shoulders tight and hunched forward as he waited for the answer. Sam wasn’t the only Winchester who’d missed his brother.

“I don’t know,” Sam said quietly, his gaze drifting out over the lake. “I’m not so sure he’d want to see me anyway. And even if we _did_ have the extremely bad idea to get together, it’s likely to just end in a shouting match anyway. We never could talk to each other like civilized people.”

“Well, that’s true. But I still think he’d want to see you.”

“Dean, he cut me out of his life because I wanted to go to _school_. My whole life, he’s wanted me to be an architect, and now I _am_ one, and he’s still not happy because I’m not building the kinds of buildings he wants me to build. He’s impossible to satisfy.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dean said, fighting down the bitterness in the back of his throat. He stood up from the table to move to the stove, hoping to work off some of his sudden, restless energy.

He’d always been caught between his father and brother. His little brother, the one who could never do any wrong growing up, the one Dean was supposed to look after, take care of. Dad had never even seen it coming. His hopes had all been on Sam. Sam the smart one, good grades in every subject and an eye for design that had rivaled John Winchester’s at his creative peak.

Dean had been more observant. He’d seen Sam becoming more easily frustrated when Dad decided they needed to pick up and move again in search of a new job site, leaving friends behind one more time. Dean had learned early on not to make friends, but he couldn’t deny that to Sam. He’d seen Sam’s sketchpad. He’d known what types of books Sam got from the library. But he’d always hoped. When the letter came for Sam saying he’d been accepted at Cornell, the top school for undergraduate architecture in the nation, Dean hadn’t been surprised, but he’d been hurt nonetheless.

He was leaving Dean behind, and in so doing, basically telling Dean that what he’d chosen to do with his life wasn’t good enough. _Dean_ wasn’t good enough. But then, Dean already knew that.

“You know, we were up near Ithaca on a jobsite about two years back,” Sam’s eyes widened fractionally. “Dad parked the Impala across from your dorm for a solid eight hours, just with the hopes of catching a glimpse of you to make sure you were all right. Don’t tell me he wasn’t proud of you.”

Sam scowled. “Would have meant more if he’d actually said something.”

Dean slammed the lid back on the pot he’d been stirring, anger and resentment finally getting the best of him.

“Why exactly are you here, Sam? Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful you’ve finally decided I’m worth your time again, but why now?”

Sam sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Look, Dean, I’m sorry I didn’t contact you. I guess I didn’t know where you stood on the whole, ‘if you walk out that door,’ ultimatum. I mean, seriously, you’ve always been Dad’s perfect son, always doing exactly what he wanted. How was I supposed to know if you’d just ignore me or not? I don’t think I could have handled it.”

Sam got up from his seat at the table and moved over to the island that housed the sink and the oven. “I guess you could say I’m at a crossroads. I’ve applied to a couple of graduate programs, and I got in.”

Dean grunted in acknowledgement. That didn’t surprise him at all. Sammy could do whatever he set his mind to. “Which schools?”

“Columbia, MIT, Cornell and Michigan.”

Dean whistled, “Those are all top six schools, Sammy. Way to go. Have you decided which one yet?”

Sam shook his head. “No, and I’m not sure I’m going to pick any of them.”

“What the hell do you mean, you might not pick any of them? Sam, you get a degree from any of those schools and you’d have no problem getting picked up by any firm you wanted.”

“But that’s just _it_ , Dean. I don’t _want_ to just get picked up by any firm. I told you that last night.” Dean’s brow furrowed as he tried to recall their conversation from the previous evening.

Sam rolled his eyes again. “Resurrection Restoration, Dean. I want to start our _own_ firm. Just you and me. I managed to get a minor in business at Cornell too, you know.”

Dean’s eyebrow shot up. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you, Sammy?”

“Yes, Dean. I’ve already got a business model drawn up if you wanna look at it?” Sam looked at Dean imploringly. “At least don’t say no right away. Think about it a little.”

Dean felt his shoulders drop and he closed his eyes. He couldn’t deny that he’d always hoped that maybe… but he also knew his father would blow a gasket. Besides, he was part owner of Colt Construction. He couldn’t just up and walk out on that. He had responsibilities. Looking at Sam, he groaned. His little brother had turned on those nearly impossible to resist damn puppy dog eyes.

“ _Fine,_ I’ll _think_ about it. When do you need your answer by?” Dean said. After all, he’d only agreed to think about it. He hadn’t committed to anything.

Sam sat up straight and shot him a lopsided grin, as though this victory was more than he had actually expected. “June 1st. Thanks, Dean. I promise, you won’t regret it.”

“Yeah, somehow I doubt that. Now, get your ass over here. I’m not fixing your bowl for you. You want chow, come fix it yourself.”

So what if the first thought on Dean’s mind was what Cas might think of this whole thing?

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel tried to avoid the lake house. He went back to work the next day, stopped in to check on Anna, went out for drinks with Balthazar at the Roadhouse Friday night, and even called up Michael on his own to meet him for lunch on Saturday.

But his thoughts were filled with Dean and the impossibility that surrounded him and the mailbox.

Saturday night he sat on his couch with a mug of tea and a book. He’d read it at least twenty times already and he didn’t really need to see the words on the page to know the story, so it was easy for his mind to drift without even realizing it.

A soft noise in front of him made him glance up and notice Gabriel sitting on the coffee table, staring at him archly.  

“I’m not going back.” Castiel told the cat definitively.

Gabriel flicked his tail.

“I’m not. There’s no reason to. It can’t be real. And besides, even if by some chance it’s not some bizarre prank, the last thing I need is another impossible relationship.”

Gabriel hopped to the arm of the couch and climbed up to the back, walking behind Castiel. He was sure it was no accident when the cat’s tail whipped him across the head.

The next morning, Castiel found himself driving out towards Maple Lake as though he’d been planning it all along. He tried to tell himself he was going for the lake and not the mailbox. He even managed to walk a circuit around the perimeter before giving in and opening the door to reveal the message Dean had left for him.

****

** **

** **

 

Castiel sat on a rock at the lake’s edge and read through the letter again. He frowned at the words in front of him. He wished he could give Dean words that would help. But he’d never been very good at that. How did he comfort a man two years in the past? What ever decision Dean made had already happened long ago. He wondered if his words would make a difference. Would they change Dean’s mind about whatever it was Sam wanted him to do? Could it? Had it already? Dean hadn’t given any details, and the way he danced around the subject made Castiel feel like he shouldn’t ask.

What he hated more than anything else though was Dean’s clear sense that he wasn’t as good as his brother. He didn’t say it outright, but there were a few lines, a few words that had caught Castiel’s attention. He obviously admired his brother and thought he deserved success, without reserving any of that for himself. He found himself wishing he knew Dean better professionally as well as personally. Anything he might say to deny Dean’s low sense of worth felt like platitudes.

Sighing, he got up from the rock and moved towards the Continental to dig through the seats for a pen and the pad of paper he’d left there the day before.

He still wasn’t sure how he was going to respond to Dean, but he knew he needed to.

After sitting in the driver’s seat, pad on his knee and pen poised over the paper for five minutes with no inspiration, Cas threw the pad back on the passenger floorboard. Rather than answering right away, Castiel opted instead to pocket the letter and headed towards home with the hope that something would come to him soon.

Dean’s words stayed on his mind throughout the next day. His shift was rather dull. While he wasn’t on staff in the emergency room, there were a few patients in the hospital that needed to be checked on as well as a couple consultations, but nothing out of the ordinary.

By the time he got around to taking a late lunch, Castiel decided to find a quiet corner in the back of the nearly empty cafeteria with a notepad, determined to write back.

****

 

 

Castiel hovered his pen over the bottom of the page before smiling a little and signing his name.

 

 

 ****

Dean checked the mailbox every day. At first, he thought Cas just wasn’t going to come back. His letter stayed without moving for at least three days. When it finally disappeared, there wasn’t anything left in its place. He actually wondered if perhaps the postman had accidentally picked it up out of habit, despite the lack of an address or stamp. That would be just his luck.

A week later, his diligence was rewarded.

He read Castiel’s letter and huffed a laugh. This was going to be interesting. He’d never had a problem getting to know someone in person. He knew how to charm just about anyone he needed to. But he’d never been that great at communicating on paper. It didn’t seem like Cas was going to be any better about it.

Dean figured that any situation this unusual made it worth it to try. The effort would be awkward as shit, he was sure, but Cas felt important.

Dean took to keeping a piece of paper folded in his back pocket. Whenever a thought crossed through his head, or he had a spare moment to jot something down, he’d pull it out and scribble off whatever was on his mind before putting it back.

He’d seen Lisa eyeing him a little curiously about it, but she hadn’t asked. Dean was grateful. He didn’t have the slightest notion of how he would explain whatever this thing was with Cas. And it felt extremely personal. Dean wasn’t quite ready to share the magic of the mailbox just yet. Besides, anyone he told was likely to decide he was bat shit crazy and recommend he take a trip to the psych ward. He still wasn’t completely convinced they would be wrong. At least if it turned out he was two screws short, Northwest psychiatric was one of the best in the country.

In between writing to Cas, Dean continued working the job site. Things had gotten back on track. The correct fixtures had arrived for number twenty-three, and since Dean had had a head’s up about the impending weather, he’d made sure to shift the schedule around so the crews were focused primarily on interior work. It put them behind on a few of the houses, but gave them a jumpstart on others. When the weather improved, they’d flip back around and even out without a hitch.

He was grateful Sam hadn’t brought up Resurrection Restoration again. Dean couldn’t shake the idea from his head, but he knew it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t walk away from Colt Construction. He thought about mentioning it to Bobby, see what he thought, but Dean couldn’t be sure Bobby wouldn’t pass it on to his father. At the very least, he and Sam were still staying quiet about his being in town.

“You really need to tell him you’re here,” Dean said pointedly, standing up from behind the refrigerator door, beer in hand. He held one out to Sam, who took it before he popped the lid off his own bottle with the edge of the counter.

“What does it matter, Dean?” Sam asked. “You know all we’re going to do is fight.”

“Look, man. I get it. The two of you don’t see eye to eye. But we’re family. And I work with the guy. Honestly? It’s getting pretty damn hard to avoid mentioning the fact that you’re sleeping on my couch.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, alright. Fair enough,” he said. “I guess it is pretty crappy of me to make you keep it from him.” He sighed heavily. “I guess I can, I dunno, ask him to meet me for lunch or coffee or something. Probably won’t come if I’m the one to call though.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dude. You seriously asking me to trick Dad into having lunch with you?”

“C’mon, Dean. Please? You’re the one that wants me to talk to him. You can come with.” He fixed Dean with a wide-eyed stare that he’d managed to perfect by the age of six. Dean didn’t understand how the hell it could still be so damn effective now that his brother was six foot four and all muscle.

Dean rubbed a hand down his face and sighed. “Yeah, alright. Probably need me there anyway to make sure the two of you don’t kill each other.”

Sam’s shoulders relaxed and his face slid into a lopsided grin. “Thanks man, I owe you.”

Dean tipped his beer towards his brother. “You bet your ass you do. Don’t think I’m gonna forget it either.”

* * *

John was scheduled to come to the Kripke Hollow site on Thursday, three days after Dean finally convinced Sam to meet with him. Dean had tried to get his father to agree to lunch sooner, but John insisted he was too busy on the other sites and anything Dean might want to discuss would just have to wait.

“Unless you think you can’t handle something,” John had said, hinting at potential inadequacies in Dean’s running of the site.

Dean’s jaw flexed as he bit down on the retort that sprang to the tip of his tongue. Fortunately, John was on the other end of a phone line and couldn’t see the expression on Dean’s face. He took a deep, quiet breath to steady his voice before responding. “No, sir. Everything is running on schedule here, and we’ve hit no obstacles this week. Just thought it might be nice to lay out the next few months somewhere other than the office.”

Dean knew John was going to be livid when he realized Dean didn’t really intend to discuss the schedule. Not only would he be furious at having been tricked, but he’d also resent the time spent away from the job. Dean didn’t know another way to get him to meet with Sam though, so he’d just have to deal with the fallout when it happened.

At least they were meeting in a public space, meaning there was only so much of a scene John could throw.

They pulled up to the diner Sam had agreed to meet them at a few minutes later than planned. Dean could see Sam’s car already in the parking lot. He felt his gut clench in as though a fist had formed in his stomach.

John walked through the door first and Dean knew he’d immediately spotted Sam by the way he stopped dead just inside the threshold.

Rounding on his heel, he turned to Dean, his expression thunderous.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, his voice low and deceptively calm.

“Turns out Sam’s in town. Wanted a chance to say hello. I thought lunch might be a good chance to catch up.” Dean said, shrugging and feigning a nonchalance he didn’t feel.

John didn’t respond verbally, but his glare could have frozen Medusa, and spoke volumes about what he would have to say to Dean later.

Dean thanked whoever had their ears on that John’s back was still turned to Sam when his brother looked up from his menu and spotted them. He raised his hand to Dean, and for a moment, Dean was sure his brother was going to get up to come join them. He held up his palm, asking him to wait.

Turning to John, Dean came as close as he’d ever dared to pleading with his father. “Look, just… just hear him out, ok? I think he really wants to try and make good the crap that went down when he left. I’m not saying you guys have to be tight. But… he’s family, Dad. Just give it a chance?”

John’s face seemed to melt. Dean wasn’t sure if it was because John agreed with what he’d said, or he just sensed the near desperation in his oldest son, but whatever the cause, John had clearly relented to the meeting.

Dean’s shoulders dropped fractionally as he breathed out a sigh of relief. He straightened quickly and turned towards Sam, knowing his brother wouldn’t wait long. He pasted on a smile as they walked towards the booth. Maybe, just maybe, all three of them would make it through this lunch intact.

As soon as they started in his direction, Sam stood up to greet John. Dean saw his father’s eyes widen as he took in the filled out version of what had once been a tall, but lanky boy.

“Sam. Good to see you, son.”

“Hey, Dad. Yeah, you too.”

The three men stood around shuffling awkwardly, John and Sam stealing small glances up at each other like nervous prom dates, but never quite meeting each other’s eyes. Finally, Dean, exasperated by both of them, jumped in a shade too loudly and jovially. “Well? What are we waiting for? Let’s sit down and eat. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving.” He slid into the side of the booth Sam had vacated earlier and picked up a menu, resolutely ignoring the two men who looked sheepishly at each other and moved to join him.

Once they settled in, Sam next to Dean with both brothers facing John, the tension seemed to break a bit.

“So, Sam, what have you been up to?”

“Well, sir, I finished my degree. Graduated this past December.”

“I suppose you did well at that, did you?”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek to hide his reaction. John Winchester might have resented his son going off to college, but both Dean and Sam knew he expected his boys to be the best they could be.

“Yes, sir. Summa cum laude.”

John nodded. “You plannin’ on staying in the area long?”

Dean tensed. Sam had promised he wouldn’t bring up his hair brained scheme of the two of them opening up a business together, but he’d also known his father would inevitably ask what Sam’s plans were. He didn’t have a clue what Sam planned to say.

“What can I get for you all today?”

Their waitress could not have had better timing. Dean looked over at her and flashed his patented Winchester grin, if only to deflect away from a situation that was very likely to devolve rapidly. He could feel Sammy’s bitch face and found he just couldn’t care.

“I’ll take a cheeseburger, everything on it, and, uh, you might as well go ahead and bring out a slice of the best pie you have,” he said.

The waitress laughed. “Cheeseburger and a slice of pecan pie, comin’ up,” she said. “We’ve got the best in town. Now what about you boys?”

Her pencil poised over her pad, she glanced between John and Sam, clearly inviting either one of them to go next. Sam, to Dean’s relief, yielded to John. Orders in hand, the waitress spun efficiently on her heel and headed back to the kitchen to get them started.

In her wake, a stilted silence descended upon the table. Dean was about to open his mouth to say something, anything, when John spoke again.

“So, the last time we saw each other, we had a pretty big fight.”

“Yes, sir.”

John nodded retrospectively, his eyes not focusing on either of his boys, and didn’t respond for a minute. When he did, it was as though the words were being pulled up slowly, from a part of John not often tapped. “I’m real proud of you, son. Not happy about how you did it. Sure as hell could have shown a lot more respect for your family.”

Dean tensed, hoping that Sam would bite back whatever retort was on the tip of his tongue. The word “proud” didn’t come lightly to John Winchester. Dean was pretty sure he’d never heard him actually say it to him. He willed Sam to acknowledge that significance and roll with the rest.

Fortunately, even though Dean picked up the twitch in his brother’s shoulder, he seemed to sense Dean’s thinking. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.”

“So, now that you have all that fancy schooling out of your system, you’re ready to settle down?”

“Thinking about it, sir. I’m still considering graduate school as a possibility. I’ve been accepted to several top programs. MIT and Cornell have offered me full rides.”

Dean startled and stared at his brother. He knew the kid had gotten into the schools, but he hadn’t told him about the scholarships. The fact that Sam had managed that didn’t surprise in the slightest. After all, he’d gotten a full ride to Cornell the first time around and came out at the top of his class. But if he had school paid for, why the hell was Sam willing to put it aside to try and open some risky ass venture with him?

Sam glanced over at him, giving him an almost imperceptible shake of the head before turning back to John, who had a slight frown on his face.

“You’ve already got a degree. You don’t need more to join the family business. Hell, you didn’t need the first one.”

Dean closed his eyes. He should have seen this coming. He honestly should have.

“I don’t intend to work for Colt Construction, Dad,” Sam said, his voice level.

“Why the hell not? What, now that you have some fancy diploma, you’re too good to work home construction?”

“No, Dad. That’s not what I -”

“You’re a part of this family, Sam, whether you choose to act like it or not. It’s about damn time you got your head out of the clouds and back on the ground and in reality. You’re a Winchester, dammit. You don’t belong in some fancy ass firm, no matter how much you’d like to think so.”

Dean could see Sam’s face tighten, his mouth drawing close to a point in anger. This was what it always came down to. He knew this lunch was a bad idea. Maybe there was still some way he could save the situation.

“Hey, hey, guys. Let’s cool down, all right?”

“No, Dean. It’s not all right. He thinks that just because he failed, there’s not a chance we could succeed.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, boy. And watch who you’re calling a failure. I’ve built my own business from the ground up. Might not be as high and mighty as you have your sights, but we do good.”

“I’m not… that’s not the… there’s nothing wrong with building houses, Dad. That’s not what I’m saying. But it’s not what I want to do. I want to do something different. Something new. I have my own visions. And believe or not, a lot of them are houses. But I don’t want to build the same copy of something over and over again. I’m not saying that’s wrong. I’m saying it won’t make me happy.”

“What, and you think chasing up a corporate ladder will? Because let me tell you, boy. I’ve been in that world. You aren’t going to be doing nearly as much designing as you think. No. You’ll be doing a lot of groveling. You’ll be working under the people with a shitload less talent because they have the money and the power to see things done.”  
“Who the hell said I wanted to join a firm? Why couldn’t I start my own? You did.”

John laughed. “And who the hell is going to want to hire you? You have no experience. You’re going to fall flat on your face.”

Dean had shrunk back into the corner of the booth. How could he have let this happen? They were fighting again and he hadn’t been able to stop it - again. If Sam walked out today, he wasn’t sure he’d ever come back. He’d lost his brother for four years the last time.

“Hey, guys…” he tried to interrupt them, distract them, anything to make them take a breath and calm down.

“Stay out of this, Dean,” John snapped.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Sam retorted.

John’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Excuse me?”

“Dean’s a freaking adult. How he puts up with you on a regular basis is beyond me. You’ve always treated him, both of us, like we’re still kids.”

“Sam, please don’t…” Dean said, trying to take the focus back off of him. God he wished he wasn’t on the inside of the booth.

“No! Dean, you don’t have to take this,” Sam said, turning to Dean.

“I’m not sure I like your implication, boy. Your brother understands what it means to be a part of this family.”

Dean couldn’t handle it anymore.

“You know what? Screw this. I’m not doing it. You two hash this out. Move, Sam, I gotta take a piss.” He shoved against his brother, trying to get him to shift faster so he could make his escape. He could feel their eyes on him as he made his way to the bathroom. Fortunately, their booth was directly adjacent to the hallway that led to the restrooms, so within a few seconds, he’d turned the corner on the partition wall and disappeared from view.

Pushing open the door with somewhat more force than necessary, Dean made sure no one else was in the room before twisting the lock. He was afraid he was going to have a melt down and wasn’t thrilled at the idea of anyone walking in on him.

He walked over to the sink and twisted the tap sharply, as though it had personally offended him. Bending over, he splashed water on his face before gripping the sides of the porcelain.

Dean looked up into the mirror. Did he like what he saw? He wasn’t sure. What did Sam see? What about his father? An obedient son? How could the same concept hold such two different connotations for different people?

He briefly wondered what Cas saw in him when he wrote to Dean. They hadn’t exchanged photos. Dean wasn’t sure why, other than it felt like it would somehow be breaking an unspoken rule. Without a visual reference, all Cas saw were Dean’s words. Did he think of Dean as his own man? Or someone willing to let himself be controlled?

Dean considered his options. The easiest choice was to stay with his father and his partnership with Colt Construction, something he’d been a part of and helped build for most his life. He truly believed in the value of what they did. There was a place and a purpose for it. But Sam was right, too. It wasn’t what he really wanted to be doing. But was bailing on his father the right choice? If he went in with Sam on this, would his father cut them both out of his life?  What if John was right? What were the odds of them succeeding? He knew damn well his father wouldn’t let him back in if it all went belly up.

He wanted to talk to Cas about it, valuing the other man’s opinion. He wasn’t really sure himself why he hadn’t discussed it more in their letters beyond the vague notion that his brother was pestering him to make a decision about something. Both Sam’s proposal and Cas himself seemed like such perfect dreams. When Dean thought about his ideal future, he knew both were in it. But that much good didn’t happen to him. He didn’t deserve it. Maybe they had to be separate dreams. One or the other. Or perhaps none at all.

He still just didn’t friggin’ know.

Pushing himself off the sink, he reached over to the towel dispenser and yanked free two sheets. After wiping down his face, he glanced at his reflection one more time, before unlocking the door and heading back out and hoping John and Sam hadn’t come to physical blows.

Just before he turned the corner to rejoin them, Dean paused. Based on the sounds of cutlery scraping against plates, Dean assumed that at some point, their waitress had brought their food. The conversation between father and son no longer sounded heated and raised at least. Dean wondered if his exit had prompted the change, or the return of the waitress. He found he didn’t actually care.

“I guess I always knew you and I were too different,” Dean heard John say, the scrape of knife against plate pausing. “I never really knew how to handle that.”

Sam snorted. “Are you kidding me, Dad? We’re not different. We’re exactly the same. I might never have gotten to know mom, but I sure as hell know I got my temper from you. We’re both just too bullheaded.”

Dean raised an eyebrow and nodded his head in silent agreement. Kid had a point. He heard his father huff a laugh as well.

“Yeah, son, maybe you’re right.”

Taking the acknowledgement as a sign of truce, Dean heaved a sigh of relief and stepped back out to join his family.  

 


	8. Chapter 8

Dean felt pretty good. The sensation was foreign to him. He’d been fairly content with his life where it was, but he’d never been particularly happy, never really thought of happiness as necessary or something he should expect.

Now though, everything seemed a shade brighter. Sam and John had started mending fences, and even if they weren’t about to become a close knit family group overnight, it was a start. At least Dean didn’t feel like he had to sneak around in order to include both of them in his life.

About a week after their lunch with John, Sam sat down at the table across from Dean.

“So, get this,” he said, looking at Dean, and leaning forward a bit with his hands clasped in front of him. Dean looked up, narrowing his eyes as he waited for his brother to continue. Sam never started a sentence that way unless he was trying to talk about something he knew Dean wasn’t particularly interested in or approach an uncomfortable topic.

“I’ve been thinking, and you know, there are a lot of really great new apartments in the city. A lot of new development going into the downtown area, and I thought maybe it was time I took the plunge and bought my own space too,” Sam said.

Dean frowned a little. “You know I’m not kicking you out, right?”

Sam rolled his eyes and flopped back in the chair. “Dean. Look, man. It’s not like I’m ungrateful, really I am, but your couch? Sleeps like shit.”

Dean snorted. “Well, you know, I don’t know that the furniture industry was really thinking “moose” when they designed it.”

“Yeah, well, I think I should probably get my own place.”

“But why buy, man? Aren’t you looking at grad school? What’re you gonna do with a place when you gotta relocate in what, eight months?”

Sam’s brow furrowed, his eyebrows drawing down a little on the sides as he slipped into the early stages of his pleading look. “Well, I was thinking, with all the refurbishments going up around the city, I could probably get a dual purpose space. You know, some place where I could have an apartment above and a studio below? It wouldn’t necessarily work for a long term office to meet clients in, but it would be a great place to -”

“Sam,” Dean cut him off. “Look. I told you I’d think about it. I’m thinking, I promise. But right now, I don’t have an answer for you. Don’t go making life-altering decisions on the assumption that I’m going to say yes. Not cool, man.”   
“But, Dean. If you’d just look at the business plan I’ve drawn up -”

“Sam, I will. But now’s not a good time. The weather’s finally clearing up and we have to get back on schedule.”

Sam snorted and ran a hand through his absurdly long hair. “That’s bullshit and you know it. I talked to Bobby. He can’t get over how far ahead your site is from the rest of them. He acts like you’re some wunderkind of efficiency. I know you have time. You just don’t want to. I know you’re working on something though. You’re constantly writing.”

“Sam, drop it, okay?”

Fortunately, Sam did. And he found a small apartment to rent the next week.

“For now,” he’d told Dean. “It’s a month by month deal. If you change your mind, just give me the word.”

As for Sam’s other observation, Dean had blushed, but hadn’t elaborated on the unspoken question. He wasn’t ready to explain the whole situation with Cas just yet. It still felt too bizarre to share; as though if he did, whatever it was that connected them would somehow break.

That didn’t mean that they hadn’t continued writing. As February became March and March began to bleed into April, Cas and Dean’s letters started to become almost natural conversation.

Took Ben to the batting cages today.

Ben is Lisa’s child, correct?

Yeah. Kid’s a pistol. And really good with a bat. Season starts in a week and I think he’s good enough to actually try for a real team, not just a little league type thing.

Have you ever considered coaching baseball?

Nah. I think they have rules against that or something. You gotta have a kid.

It sounds as though you’re serving in the capacity of a father figure to Ben, at least. I’m sure he’d appreciate the extra attention.

The letters flowed back and forth almost every day. Some days, they would simply sit at the mailbox exchanging a page back and forth like a bizarre text messaging system. Other times, they had to be content with longer letters filled with one-sided accounts of how their day had gone.

Dean carried those letters around in his back pocket, rereading them until they grew creased and soft along the edges.

By some unspoken agreement, they’d never exchanged photos of each other. Dean wasn’t sure why, but for some reason, it felt forbidden. That didn’t stop him from wanting to get the chance to see Cas.

 

Dean smiled at the last response as he held the page in his hand, reminding him exactly where he needed to be and when. Proof that Cas was somewhere nearby.

He scanned the crowd, looking for someone of whom he only had a vague idea what they looked like. He hoped something would just let him _know_. Cas had said he’d left something behind so he let his eyes linger the longest on the guys with things obviously in their hands.

Fortunately, the platform wasn’t overly crowded. Since it was still the middle of a workday for most people, only a handful were scattered in front of him.

Something kept drawing his gaze back to one person in particular. It was a good-looking man, fairly young with a strong potential for being in his late twenties, early thirties. His hair was dark and tousled, and he wore a khaki trench coat over a dark suit. His attention was currently focused on a well-worn book in his hands. Dean was too far away to see the cover.

As he made the decision to step closer, possibly to initiate a casual conversation, another man came up and put his hand on the stranger’s shoulder, almost possessively. The man on the bench looked up and smiled.

Even though the expression was somewhat pinched and restrained, it took Dean’s breath away. He wondered what the man looked like when he smiled full out.

Standing up to greet the newcomer, bench guy sat the book down before giving the other man a cursory hug. The motion looked familiar, comfortable. As if the two knew each other well. The new man, who turned out to be several inches shorter, seemed to be somewhat more enthusiastic in his greeting, urgently rushing Dean’s current interest along.

As soon as Dean realized he’d left the book behind, forgotten on the bench, Dean knew for sure. Bench guy was Cas.

Jolting into motion, Dean moved forward quickly, scooping the book up off the bench and jogging towards the car Cas had boarded, shouting to try and get his attention. Dean could see Cas looking through the window of the car, but the glass was too thick for him to be heard.

Dean saw Cas glance around him as though he just realized the book had gone missing, before looking through the window towards the abandoned bench. For a split second before the train jolted into motion, his eyes met Dean’s and Dean was struck by how blue they were; enough to be noticeable through the thick, dirty pane. He held the book up apologetically as the train picked up speed and Cas was pulled away from him.

* * *

Dean felt an inexplicable flare of jealousy. He could honestly say he’d never been in any form of a relationship where the person he was interested in was both single and attached at the same time. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He knew that the Cas that was in his time period wasn’t his Cas, but it still rubbed him the wrong way. He’d never held past relationships against a partner. What Cas had done before he’d met him was his business. It just felt weird that Dean almost had actually met Cas, but it was still before Cas would meet him.

Dean shook his head and forced himself to stop thinking about it. The circularity of the whole situation was giving him a headache. He’d banned himself from questioning whatever was happening a month ago. In doing so that meant he had to abandon a lot of logic in the process.

****

Well, Cas had him there. He’d often been responsible for looking after Sam growing up and it had led to more than a few clashes.

Dean resolved to one day return the book to Cas. Even if the guy had gone out and gotten a new copy since then, he knew it would never hold the same memories for him as the battered one currently in Dean’s hands. He figured Cas wouldn’t mind if it took him a few years to manage the task.

He smiled at the thought and realized he did want to give Cas something that would affect him immediately. Something he wouldn’t have to wait for. Well. Cas wouldn’t at least. Even if Dean wasn’t there to give it to him in person.

Narrowing his eyes in thought, Dean flipped through the letters Cas had sent him. He’d taken to keeping them in a large shoebox that had once held a pair of his work boots. Not the best organizational system, but at least it kept them all together.

Finding the one he wanted, Dean reread the line to confirm what he needed to know.

Double checking Cas’ address, Dean resolved to implement his plan as soon as possible. Checking his watch, he realized now might actually be a great time. No one would be on the job site to see him while he collected what he needed. Even if they were there, he was part owner. Could anyone - aside from John - really accuse him of stealing from himself? Smiling, he got into the Impala and headed into town.

The weather was absolutely miserable as Castiel drove back to Chicago from the lake house. The rain pounded against the roof of his car and he cursed his lack of foresight to bring an umbrella.

He and Dean had been exchanging letters at the mailbox, and while the evening had held the typical bite of early spring, the weather itself had been dry. Dean hadn’t responded to his last post for a while, and Cas was just debating whether he should stay or go when the first angry drops started falling.

The fates had smiled on him, allowing him to reach his car before the bottom completely dropped out, but he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky once he reached his apartment.

As it turned out, he wasn’t entirely out of luck. He did at least manage to find a spot directly across the street from his building, rather than having to park a block or more away, but the rain itself was pelting down harder than ever. The force of the droplets resulted in small splashes against the pavement and refused to let any puddle lie still.

Castiel groaned and rubbed his face with one hand as he looked out the window, feeling the day’s growth of stubble scrape against his palm.

Well, he wasn’t going to be able to avoid it much longer. He might as well get it over with. Looking on the floor of the passenger side, he saw an old newspaper from a few days prior. It probably wouldn’t do much good, but it couldn’t hurt either.

Grabbing it, he held it above his head in a mockery of shelter as he stepped out of his car, directly into a puddle at least an inch deep. Sighing, Cas made a run for it. He was fifty yards from his building, fumbling with his keys, when he dropped them into the streambed that seemed to resemble what at one time been a Chicago city sidewalk.

Cursing loudly, Cas bent to retrieve them when the rain suddenly seemed to lessen above him. It was certainly still raining. Three feet to his left, the water still pounded the pavement. But there was a circle around him that had been reduced to a series of heavy drips, rather than the deluge that covered the rest of the city.

Cas looked up to try and identify what had caused the sudden shift. His jaw dropped as he took in a large maple tree to his right. He _knew_ that tree hadn’t been there moments before…

Dean. It had to have somehow been Dean.

Smiling to himself, Cas bent down again and scooped up his keys and lowered the paper as he walked the rest of the way to the building through the rain, no longer minding the wet quite as much.

Once inside, he shucked off his coat in the kitchen, laying it over the radiator under the window to help it dry a little faster. Gabriel wound his way through Cas’ feet, reminding him unnecessarily that the cat needed to be fed.

Popping the top of the one brand of cat food Cas had managed to find that would meet Gabriel’s picky standards, he reached for the bowl on the ground and dumped the contents inside. Not willing to wait, Gabriel lightly jumped onto the counter and started eating around the spoon, while Cas was still scraping the last bits in.

“C’mon. You know you aren’t supposed to be on the counter,” Cas said to the cat, scooping him up with one arm and depositing him on the ground while he placed the bowl in front of him with his other free hand.

Gabriel protested the shift loudly, but was content to ignore Castiel as he continued his dinner.

Rolling his eyes at the cat, Cas began to peel off his wet, cold clothing on his way to the shower. It wasn’t until he was under the warm stream of water that he wondered if anyone besides himself had noticed the sudden appearance of the tree. What other little things about his world had shifted without anyone’s notice because of Dean? Did it matter?

* * *

Cas rubbed the back of his neck and stifled a yawn. It had been a long day and he hadn’t slept well the night before. He’d never had a problem sleeping on his own before, but the past week or so, Cas found himself longing for another body in the bed. Someone he could wrap his arms around, or even allow himself to be wrapped up by instead.

Almost two years had passed since the end of his last relationship. He told himself he was just lonely. The feeling had nothing to do with his growing attachment to Dean and an increasing desire to actually get to know the man - not just on paper. The Dean he knew existed two years in the past. Who knew what had happened between now and then? Dean could be married with children. He’d hinted on more than one occasion that a family was something he thought about often.

“You know, it’s not healthy to hold it in like that,” Balthazar said, a wide grin on his face as he strode casually up to Cas.

Cas’ eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly to the left as he tried to determine what Balthazar was talking about. There wasn’t any way the other doctor could tell he was thinking about Dean was there? No one in Cas’ life even _knew_ about Dean. He still wasn’t convinced anyone he told wouldn’t just try to schedule him an evaluation in the psychiatric ward in the next building over.

“The, yawn, man, the yawn,” Balthazar said, laughing. “If that isn’t the face of a man with a dirty secret though, then I’m a Playboy bunny. Actually, when I think about it, I’d make quite a good bunny. I remember this one party when -”

“Balthazar!” Cas said sharply, eager to cut his colleague off before he got too involved in a story Cas had absolutely no interest hearing about. “What can I help you with?”

Balthazar rolled his eyes at Cas’ more formal tone. “I was wondering if you were planning on heading down to the cafeteria any time soon for dinner. I wouldn’t mind having someone to share a table with.”

Glancing down at his watch, Cas realized it was nearly seven o’clock. Groaning, he rubbed his left hand over his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. That’ll be good. Let me just go drop this,” he raised the clipboard with a patient folder attached to it with his right hand, “in my office.”

“Absolutely, mate. I’ll meet you at the elevators, yeah?”

Cas nodded his acknowledgement and turned towards his office. Once he dropped the clipboard onto his desk, he grabbed his wallet, the latest letter from Dean, and a small notepad. The later two were more out of habit than an actual expectation that he’d have the opportunity to respond to Dean while on his break. Writing during his meals had become almost a ritual for him on the occasions he didn’t eat with Balthazar. Often, he wound up sending Dean letters that were two and three pages long, just of the things Cas had thought to tell him over the course of the day. Now, he tucked the folded piece of paper into the pocket of his scrubs and held the notepad curled against his chest like a security blanket.

Fortunately, Balthazar didn’t seem to find anything out of the ordinary, and if he did, he chose not to say anything.

When they got to the cafeteria, it was still fairly busy with the dinner hour rush. With an exaggerated groan, Balthazar grabbed a tray and got in line, Cas following behind more sedately. If they had to wait, there was nothing they could do about it, and it was hardly new.

Castiel tried hard to tune out Balthazar’s running commentary on what he thought the food both looked and smelled like. Both men knew it was edible, most of it even palatable. But Cas had to agree with his friend that the setup hardly made it look appetizing.

Eventually, they found a seat at a small table lined up against the back wall of the noisy room. Cas was grateful that it was at least out of the path of the greatest hustle and bustle. He hated not getting the chance to separate himself from the chaos even on his down time.

“So,” Balthazar said, “who’s the lucky lady?”

Cas blinked, his face void of expression in his surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Who’s the lady? The one you’ve been spending all your time with? You can’t deny it Castiel. I know there’s someone. You’ve skipped out on Friday drinks twice now and I’ve seen you writing away on any scrap piece of paper whenever you get a chance.”

“There’s no girl,” Cas said, his voice grating a little deeper in his exasperation with his friend.

“Ah, ha then. A gentleman caller. Have to admit, Castiel, I didn’t call that one.”

“I don’t see why you would. My preferences in partner aren’t really any of your business.”

Balthazar waggled his eyebrows ridiculously , “I seem to have touched on a nerve.”

Castiel sighed, leaning back in the chair and letting his shoulders slump while his head fell forward. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be short with you.”

“So is that a yes or a no?” Balthazar asked, his brow furrowing upward expectantly.

“Yes. No. I don’t really know?” Castiel said, the last coming out more as a question.

“Oh dear. I sense this is one of those ridiculous, ‘it’s complicated’ scenarios,” Balthazar said, his features crumbling into an overly dramatic mock despair. “Seriously, how complicated could it be?”

“I’ve never actually met the guy. We’re just, I don’t know, pen pals I guess you could say,” Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly exhausted and not sure how he’d let himself be led into this particular conversation.

“So the guy’s not local then? You know, Cassie, you are allowed to take vacation. Buy a ticket hop on a plane, meet your man. Maybe get some ass.”

Castiel snorted. “As… pleasant… as that sounds, unfortunately, it’s not an option. Meeting isn’t likely going to happen.”

“Well why the hell not? Where does this guy live? The International Space Station? Even they come home after a while.” Balthazar said as he dug into the food in front of him.

His head snapped up and he dropped his fork, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper, “Oh my god, he’s in prison isn’t he? You’re one of those guys, aren’t you?”

The comment was so unexpected; it took Castiel a minute to process. When he did, he practically choked on his water, “What? No!” he protested. “It’s just…”

“Complicated,” Balthazar said with Cas.

“Look, Castiel, I can’t tell you what -”

Overhead the hospital intercom crackled to life. “Code 666, assistance needed in room 614. Paging Doctor French. Code 666, paging Doctor French.”

Balthazar wiped a napkin quickly across his mouth as he stood quickly. The motion rattled the table and his silverware clanked together while a small bit of water sloshed over the side of Castiel’s plastic cup. “Shit. Sorry to cut this short -”

“Go,” Castiel urged. Code 666 was used for heart failure. If they were specifically paging Balthazar, it was one of his patients.

Nodding a goodbye, Balthazar hurried back to his job, his break officially over.

In the quiet left behind, Cas pushed the cafeteria food around on his plate, absently. After a moment or two, he pushed his tray away and moved his notepad in front of him. Picking up the letter from Dean, Cas unfolded it and pressed it flat against the table, keeping it slightly off to the left side so he could easily read it, but respond at the same time. It was how many of their longer letters wound up. The first part of the letter was usually a series of responses to whatever the other had to say, while the second half was new news. It made Cas feel as though they were really having a conversation.  

** **

Cas had to laugh aloud. Yeah. That seemed familiar. He’d never had jellybeans in the house, so he hadn’t had the same exact experience. He made a mental note not to buy them and leave them out.

 

Probably about as strong as writing a letter that was intended for someone two years in the past. There was very little Cas didn’t believe in anymore.

****

Cas smiled ruefully. He agreed with Dean. His conversation with Balthazar hadn’t made ignoring that particular desire any easier.

****

Cas wondered exactly what it was he was doing. Was this a good idea? He’d probably just end up being disappointed. This was a stupid idea. Nonetheless, he couldn’t resist glancing at his cell phone to check the time.

****

Cas jumped when the cell phone sitting on the table in front of him suddenly lit up, dancing across the table while it vibrated away from him. The number on the screen registered an unknown caller.

Trepidation, excitement, and nervousness all battled for dominance inside him as he reached down to pick it up, swiping against the face to activate the call.

“Hello?” he asked, proud that he kept his voice steady.

“Hello, darling,” a familiar voice said through the speaker, and Castiel bit back his disappointment. “Hope you haven’t forgotten me.”

“Hello, Crowley.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

Cas wrapped his arms tightly around his chest to keep off the evening chill, while desperately regretting the decision to leave his jacket at home. The mid-April day had been unseasonably warm, lulling Cas out into the sunshine without the garment. He hadn’t had time to go back home for it before his agreed meet up with Crowley.

Who was, predictably, late.

Cas had managed to forget that particular trait in his old boyfriend. He’d always enjoyed the satisfaction of making others wait for him. Cas just found it irritating. He discovered he felt that way even more so now.

He wasn’t really sure why he’d agreed to meet with Crowley. A small part of him felt guilty, as though he was cheating on Dean in some way. But Dean was two years away. They couldn’t meet. And it wasn’t as though Cas intended to get back together with Crowley. They hadn’t parted on horrible terms, and Cas simply didn’t see the harm in being friendly to the man. It might be nice to at least catch up. They’d been together for over a year after all.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” a gravelly, accent laced, voice said behind him. “My very own angel.”

Rolling his eyes, Cas dropped his arms to his sides and turned to Crowley. “If I’m an angel,” he quipped, “what does that make you?”

“King of Hell, of course,” Crowley said, throwing Cas a wink. “I swear, sometimes the publishing industry feels that way. Since I’m one of the top sharks in the game, I don’t think the description is too far off.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Cas asked.

“You sound as though you aren’t overjoyed to see me,” Crowley said, holding a hand to his chest and widening his eyes in mock offense.

Cas sighed and resumed rubbing his arms. He’d forgotten how tiresome Crowley could be sometimes. _That’s what you’d call a grade A douche_ , a voice running through his head said. He suppressed a smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d imagined Dean’s reaction to something going on around him. It was weird hearing Dean’s voice in his head when he had no reference for it, but Cas’ imagination had managed to doctor something together that worked.

“Dammit, Castiel,” Crowley huffed, moving closer.

Cas narrowed his eyes at him, unsure of what had the other man so exasperated.

“Why the hell aren’t you wearing a jacket?” he said as he shrugged off his own pea coat to reveal a well-tailored suit beneath.

“It wasn’t a necessity earlier,” Cas said, grudgingly accepting the offer of warmth. There were times when Crowley knew how to be a proper gentleman. Cas wouldn’t have stayed with him as long as he had if he had if that weren’t the case.

“What say we move this inside, shall we?” Crowley said. “Let me treat you to dinner.”

Cas felt like he should protest. He’d agreed to meet with Crowley to catch up while the man was in town. Maybe take a walk down Navy Pier. Dinner felt like too much of a date, as though he was promising Crowley something he wasn’t really willing to give.

Crowley seemed to read his mind. “Look, Castiel. I’m only in town for a few days. I just want a chance to catch up. Cross my heart.”

“If you’re truly the King of Hell, do you really have a heart to cross?” Cas asked, raising an eyebrow, but not giving a direct no.

With a wink, Crowley tapped the side of his nose, “That all depends on the contract.”

Cas couldn’t help the snort that escaped him.

“Come, now, really, Castiel. Just one dinner. No strings, I swear. Look,” he gestured at the restaurant behind him. “Why don’t we just eat here?”

Cas suddenly wondered at Crowley’s choice of meeting place. They were in the hotel district and he’d assumed it was simply close to where the other man was staying. But now he wasn’t so sure.

The restaurant he gestured so casually to happened to be the best in the city. Missouri’s was pricey, had a three star Michelin rating, and a reservation list at least four months long. There was no way they would get seated. And yet, Cas suddenly suspected that Crowley had looked at the impressive prices and reviews and figured the reservation list would be no obstacle.

“Crowley, that’s not going to -”

“C’mon. It’s just dinner. I’m paying, you don’t need to worry about that,” Crowley insisted, laying a hand on Cas’ upper arm and trying to entice him towards the entrance.

“I just don’t think -”

Before Cas could protest any more, they were standing in front of the host. Cas tried to shoot an apologetic look in his direction before Crowley had a chance to begin bargaining.

“Yes sirs, how can I help you this evening?”

“We’d like a table for two please, Crowley said in an imperious voice, his nose angled slightly in the air. Cas fought back the urge to laugh.

“Of course, can I please have the name on the reservation?” the young host asked, all polite smiles.

“Ah, yes, about that. See, we don’t have a reservation.” Crowley said, attempting what he clearly thought was a charming smile, even though it came off slightly threatening. At one time, Cas had found that attractive.

“I’m sorry sir. We’re currently booked through the summer. If you don’t have a reservation, there’s nothing I can do.” The host looked truly apologetic, even though Cas was sure he had to tell people the same thing several times every evening.

“Surely you could fit us in somewhere?” Crowley said, unbelievingly.

“I’m positive sir. If you would like to dine with us in the future, we look forward to it, but recommend you make a reservation well in advance.” This time, the host’s voice had taken on a more firm tone and Cas glanced down at his nametag so he could put a name to the respect he now had for the man who stood up to Crowley.

_Alfie._

Well. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Nevertheless, Cas nodded to Alfie and smiled. “Thank you. We’re sorry to have wasted your time.”

Once they were back out on the street, Cas had a hard time suppressing an outright smirk at the look of dejection on Crowley’s face. Instead, he settled on what he hoped was a sympathetic grimace.

“Well, that was a bloody miserable failure,” Crowley muttered.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cas said. “No one gets a seat there. I’m pretty sure the people inside are plants. Placed there merely to maintain the illusion of a successful business.”

Crowley stared at Cas a moment before he snorted.

“Where the bloody hell did that come from?”

Cas shrugged, belatedly realizing the comment was something Dean would have likely appreciated - if not said himself. “Never mind,” he said. “There are plenty of places to eat. Let’s just find somewhere more conventional, alright?”

Only when they’d started walking down the sidewalk in search for something more appropriate did Cas realize he’d inadvertently agree to dinner. _Damn._

All in all, the evening could have gone much worse. Once they’d settled on a place and made their orders, they actually did take the time to catch up.

As per usual, Crowley had more to say about himself than he allowed Cas to contribute, but, to Cas’ surprise, Crowley did make a concerted effort to find out how he was doing.

Not that Cas had much to say. Much of his spare time was spent writing letters to Dean. Even if the whole thing didn’t sound nine kinds of crazy, Cas had no desire to talk about Dean to his ex-boyfriend. There were some lines he had no intention of crossing.

Crowley, however, never paid much attention to those lines.

“So who is he?” he asked, one eyebrow arched knowingly, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Who?” Cas frowned, feigning ignorance. Was he really that transparent? First Balthazar, now Crowley?

“You’re mooning over some man, I can tell. Don’t try to hide it. You have a look.”

“I am not mooning over some man,” Cas insisted.

“Ah, is it a woman this time? Sláinte, then.”

Cas huffed out a breath, “There’s no woman, either.”

“So, I’m to surmise then, that you are currently unattached, strings floating in the wind?”

“First of all, I have no strings,” Crowley’s smirk grew and he looked as though he wanted to make a comment, but Cas narrowed his eyes at him and he snapped his mouth shut. “Even if I was seeing, need I remind you that we were at one time romantically involved, making you the last person I would be interested in discussing any current partner with?”

“Quite right, I suppose,” Crowley conceded. “But I had rather thought we’d parted as friends. And new relationships are typically things you talk about with friends. I merely thought it might be an interesting topic of conversation.”

Cas deflated slightly, realizing Crowley was right. They had parted as friends. It wasn’t as though this was the first time he’d talked to Crowley or even spent time with him since they’d broken up. He realized this whole situation with Dean had put him unknowingly on the defensive.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Cas said. “Work has been fairly busy, I suppose. I’m a little more tightly wound than usual.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley said, waving off Cas’ apology.

“How long are you in town?” Cas asked, hoping to move the subject to more neutral territory.

“Only until tomorrow afternoon. I have a flight out in the early evening. My company has some interests in the area. You could say this is a preemptive discussion to see if both sides are amenable before we start signing any agreements.”

Cas nodded. He tried to scour around his mind for a follow up question, but the ins and outs of the publishing industry had never held his fascination the way they did Crowley’s. He always seemed to live for the deal, schmoozing whomever he needed to get what he wanted. There was no denying, he was good at his job.

“So what does it mean for you if the deal goes through?”

Crowley smiled and raised both eyebrows. “I’m still working on those little details. Certainly a raise, but there are a few other perks I have my eye on.”

“Perhaps you should throw a party,” Cas suggested. Crowley had always had a fondness for parties. He thought mingling was a great way to get all the movers and shakers to come to him, while at the same time, promoting himself in a very extroverted manner. Cas had never been enthusiastic of the staged scene himself.

“I know you were a fan of my parties,” Crowley said, shocking Cas into choking on the water he was currently sipping.

“What are you talking about, Crowley?” he asked, nonplussed, “I was never comfortable at those parties.”

“You were pretty comfortable at the birthday party I threw you.”

Cas let out a bark of laughter. “Hardly. You know I’m not a fan of surprises and I’d told you I didn’t want a party.”

“What do you mean? All your friends were there,” Crowley said.

“What friends? We’d just moved to town. I didn’t know anyone. We’d barely unpacked the boxes. Everyone at that party was a complete stranger.”

“Well, I seem to recall you being pretty comfortable with at least one of those complete strangers.”

Cas scrunched his face in confusion, trying to remember what Crowley was talking about.

Crowley raised both his eyebrows again, a look of lingering irritation on his face. “If my memory serves me, I walked into the backyard to find you kissing one of the guests.”

A flicker of recognition flit through Cas’ mind. “Oh, huh. I suppose so,” he conceded, “but it meant nothing. We were dancing to the music and he wished me a happy birthday.”

“A happy birthday indeed,” Crowley said, smirking as he raised a glass in Cas’ direction.

Yes, Cas thought, the evening could have gone much worse.

 ****

Dean woke up abruptly, unsure what had interrupted his sleep, when the blaring notes of “Ramble On” penetrated his addled state of mind. Still groggy, he reached over and grabbed his phone, running his thumb across the screen to silence it. Some part if his brain registered the time on the face was somewhere around three in the morning.

“‘lo?” he said, voice still thick with exhaustion. He’d gone out with Sammy the night before for drinks and hadn’t gotten in until late.

“Dean, it’s me, Bobby.”

Dean sat up quickly, suddenly alert. “What’s wrong?”   
Bobby sighed on the other end of the line. “Your Dad’s in the hospital, kid. Had a heart attack earlier tonight. Managed to call an ambulance, looks like they got him here in time.”

Dean tried to make sense of what Bobby was saying, but he couldn’t seem to latch onto one particular detail. Something seemed off, but Dean couldn’t place what it was.

“Wait. How did you find out?” he asked.

“Hospital called me. Turns out I’m the first one up on John’s emergency contacts,” Bobby’s voice held a clear note of apology. Evidently, he too was confused as to why John’s own son wouldn’t be considered a contact in case of emergency. That was typical of his father for sure. While it stung, Dean wasn’t really surprised.

“Alright, ok, fine. Yeah. What hospital? Has he been admitted to a room?”

“Northwestern Memorial. Room 810,” Dean had a brief moment to recognize the name of Cas’ workplace before Bobby continued. “He is stable, so you don’t need to hurry your ass down here or anything. Stupid idjit will probably just get his panties in a twist ‘cause we made a fuss over him.”

Dean gritted his teeth and shook his head, even knowing that Bobby couldn’t see him. “Too bad. I’ll be there in about an hour.”

Hanging up, Dean ran a hand over his face before dialing Sam’s number to give him the news. After a brief conversation, during which he was pretty sure he’d heard Sam mutter, “stubborn asshole,” at least twice, the brothers agreed to meet up with Bobby at the hospital as soon as they could both get there.

Hurrying through his shower, Dean tried not to think about what could’ve happened, reminding himself repeatedly that the doctors had told Bobby John was stable. After pulling on his boots and grabbing a couple sticks of beef jerky to hold him over for the morning, Dean was out the door and on his way.

With the streets almost empty at five o’clock on a Saturday morning, Dean made it to the hospital in record time. He found his way up to the eighth floor, stopping by a nurse’s station to ask directions to the proper room.

“Hi, yes, I’m looking for John Winchester’s room?” he asked a woman with dark, curly hair and a heart shaped face sitting behind the counter.

Before she had a chance to answer, the man standing next to him at the counter looking over a chart glanced up at him.

“John Winchester?” he asked in a British accent.

“Yes, that’s him,” Dean said.

“I’m Balthazar French,” the man said. “Are you Dean Winchester?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m your father’s attending physician.”

Dean nodded, waiting for information. He tucked his hands in his back pockets just to keep himself from fiddling with them.

“Your father is doing well. When he arrived, he was experiencing a severe heart attack and we were forced to perform an emergency double bypass.”

Dean sucked in a breath. He knew John ate like shit, had for years. Hell, he did too, but he’d had no idea anything like this was even remotely a threat. He wondered when the last time the old man had had a physical or any kind of check up to look at his blood pressure or cholesterol.

Dr. French seemed to sense Dean’s alarm, and he held out his hands, palms forward in an attempt to calm Dean. “He came through the surgery well and is in stable condition,” he reassured Dean. “We’d like to keep him for several days, perhaps a week to watch him. Procedures like this can still carry a risk, particularly when they’re performed under emergency circumstances, but for now, he’s doing fine.”

Nodding, Dean made eye contact with the doctor to let him know he understood.

“Good, now your father is in room 810, just down the hall that way,” Dr. French turned Dean by lightly grabbing his bicep, and physically shifting him. If Dean weren’t so concerned, he’d probably have protested. As it was, he took off down the hall without giving the physician a second glance, quickly tapping out a text to Sammy to let him know he’d made it while he walked.

When he got to the room, he realized Bobby was already there, leaning back in an uncomfortable looking chair with his trademark baseball cap covering his face to block the light. Dean was pretty sure he could hear a light snore emanating from underneath.

On the bed, his father lay still, I.V. taped to his arm. The normally ruddy complexion, tanned and weathered by the sun and pinked by too much booze, was pale and almost grayish against the pillow.

Dean stared for several minutes, trying to reconcile the image in front of him with the man he knew. His father was driven, full of focused purpose to the exclusion of almost everything else. Not always channeled in the best way, but always _moving_ , barking out orders and expecting them to be obeyed.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to block out the image. A choked sound from the doorway startled him. Opening his eyes, he twisted his head to see Sam’s large frame filling the exit to the hall.

“How’s he doing?” Sam asked; his voice hushed in an attempt to keep from disturbing either John or Bobby.

“Did you see the doctor?” Dean responded.

Sam shook his head. “No. The nurse at the desk, Meg, I think, pointed the room out to me, but she couldn’t tell me anything.”

Dean nodded, repeating what the doc had told him for his brother’s benefit.

“You two gonna just stand there and yak like old hens, or are you gonna get me some coffee before I gotta kick your asses?” Bobby said, face and mouth still hidden by his hat.

Both brothers jumped a little.

“Sorry, man,” Sam said a little sheepishly, “didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Yeah, well, I am,” Bobby said, moving his hat. “And I still don’t see any coffee in front of me.

“I’ll go grab it, Bobby,” Dean said. The sight of his father on the bed was still unnerving him. He needed a moment to collect himself. Besides, Sam had been back for several weeks now and he and Bobby still hadn’t had much time to reconnect. Not the most ideal circumstances at the moment of course, but hey, it was something.

He made his way back over to the elevator bay nearly pressing the button before he realized he didn’t know what floor the cafeteria was on. Doubling back, he stopped in front of the nurse’s station again and smiled at the woman at the desk.

“Hi, uh, Meg?” he asked. That was what Sam had said her name was, right? At least she looked up.

“How can I help you, dollface?” she asked, voice slightly sarcastic on the nickname, but not unkind.

“I was kinda hoping maybe you could point me in the direction of the cafeteria?”

“Sure thing. Down on the third floor. Get off the elevator and make a right out of the bay, then make another immediate right. Trust me. Follow your nose and you can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” he said appreciatively.

Heading back to the elevator, he made his way to cafeteria as directed. Not for the first time since he’d, well, not _met_ Cas, but started whatever it was between them, he wished he could just pull out his phone and _call_ him. Hell. Even if he knew the guy’s number, now Cas didn’t have a clue who he was. But he really wanted the words he knew Cas would give him. The reassurances. After all, Cas was going to be a doctor in this hospital. He could at the very least translate all the shit mumbo jumbo for him and tell him straight up what he needed to know.

Shoving his hands in his front pockets, Dean told himself it was just the exhaustion talking. He couldn’t call Cas and there was no point in crying over that fact.

The cafeteria was stocked with the standard fare. You grabbed a tray, went down the line and pointed out a limp looking sandwich here, or a sorry salad there and the poor suckers who got stuck with the night shift handed it over. The coffee came from a carafe at the end of the line, a tall stack of Styrofoam cups lined up next to it. To Dean’s relief, he also found a carrying tray he could put them in to help him get all the food and drinks back up to the room.

Loaded down with an assortment of foodstuffs, Dean made his way over to the register, where a bored looking young man sat reading a book. He checked Dean out quickly, clearly eager to get back to whatever story he was currently focused on.

As Dean loaded his arms with refreshment for him, Sam, and Bobby, he took another glance around the cafeteria and wondered how much time Cas spent here. Would it still look the same in two years or would they renovate? Did he have a favorite place to sit? A favorite shit meal to tide him over during his shift? From what he knew of the guy, he wasn’t likely the type to bring his own food. There was so much Dean still wanted to find out about Cas. Maybe it’s what kept pulling him back.

Shaking his head, he walked out of the room and back up to where Sam, Bobby, and his father waited for him. He reminded himself that right now, he needed to be focused on his family, even as a small voice in the back of his head whispered that in the last few months, he’d started to consider Cas family too.

* * *

John woke up later that day and continued to show signs of improvement. The three men took shifts keeping him company and giving each other the chance to go home, recharge, or - in the case of Dean and Bobby - check in on the business and make sure everything kept running on schedule. Just  because the boss was down, didn’t mean production stopped.

Dean took the opportunity to write Cas, giving him an update about what was going on and an explanation for why he wouldn’t be at the mailbox as much this week.

 

 

Dean smiled at the letter, brief as it was. It was comforting to have the reassurance that his father was in good hands. And even if Cas couldn’t really do anything, it was nice to know he wanted to. Dean couldn’t even really explain to himself why that made him feel better, so he didn’t try too hard. He just knew that it did.

John, ever the grouch, actually seemed put out that the business still ran so well without him at the immediate helm.

“We’ve hired good people, Dad,” Dean said. “They know what they’re doing, and they know what you expect of them. Even if you aren’t there looking over their shoulders.”

“Don’t let ideas like that make you complacent, Dean. You keep an eye on things, or the next thing you know, they’ll be slacking off and thinking it’s acceptable. We have contracts to keep. I won’t have them going unfulfilled just because I’m not there.”

Dean bit his tongue and just nodded.

Sam wasn’t faring much better with John. The two were volatile enough together as it was, but put them in the small room and then have Sam being the one to tell John “no,” did not prove to be a great combination.

Dean was in the elevator heading up to relieve his brother, when the door opened at the third floor to reveal Sam himself holding two cups of coffee.

“Hey, man, fancy meeting you here,” Dean said, smiling at his brother.

Sam started a little when he saw Dean in the car, but just nodded tiredly before stepping in, the doors closing behind him with a quiet _whoosh_.

Nodding to the cups in Sam’s hands, Dean said, “One of those for Dad? You know the docs said no coffee, right?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Specifically they said no caffeine. Think he’ll notice the difference?” Sam asked.

Dean snorted. “Dude, you hand him a decaf cup of joe, and he’ll shit a brick. You’ve been warned.”   
Wincing, Sam looked down at the cups in his hands. “Yeah, figured as much, but he was honestly driving me up the wall and I thought it might be worth a try. Honestly, I think I just needed out of that room for a little bit.”

Dean smiled sympathetically. “Dad’s never been one for sitting still. Him being cooped up in bed for a week sure as hell hasn’t been a cakewalk for any of us.”

The doors opened to a flurry of activity on the eighth floor. Doctors and nurses were shouting at each other and running down the hallway. As a crash cart passed them by, Dean got a funny feeling sinking down in his stomach. Gripping Sam’s arm tightly for a moment, he launched himself in the direction of his father’s room. Vaguely, he heard Sam’s footsteps close on his heels.

Sure enough, the chaos led straight to John Winchester’s room. Dean felt a splash of hot liquid against the leg of his jeans as the drinks Sam had been holding crashed to the ground. He barely registered having to hold his brother back while the doctors and nurses tried to do what they could to revive their father. All he could do was watch as the dread settled further into his bones.

Later, Dr. French explained a blood clot had come loose, prompting a second heart attack. It was a fairly common complication and he was sorry. They’d done all they could, but John Winchester was dead.

Numbly, Dean drove home. There was nothing left for him at the hospital anymore except a corpse waiting to be transferred first to a funeral home and then a grave next to his mother.

Dimly, he realized the flag was up on the mailbox. Cas had been there. Opening the door, he reached in for the envelope. That was odd. They rarely bothered with envelopes anymore. He ran his finger under the flap to open it and pulled out the letter.

 

 

Dean looked inside the envelope, where, sure enough, there was an old faded photograph. One Dean had not seen in years, though he recognized it from the inside flap of his father’s old journal. One of the corners was bent and worn, the edges a little tattered with age and frequent handling, but the faces still smiled up at him. Flipping it over, he saw his father’s familiar scrawl captioning the moment in time:

_Mary, Dean, and Sam at the Lake House, 1983_


	10. Chapter 10

 

****

Cas reread the letter again, his eyes lingering on the lines crossed out and the smudge of ink where it looked like a drop of moisture had fallen on the page and been swept away. The paper was already soft when Cas found it, as though Dean had handled it quite a bit before putting it in the mailbox. The desire to be with Dean, knowing he was hurting, was almost a physical pain. Instead, all he could send were his words. It wasn’t something Cas had ever been terribly good at, but for Dean, he was willing to try. After all, Dean had become one of the most important people in Cas’ life.

It was that moment, when Cas realized he was in over his head. What the hell was he doing? This was crazy.

Determined to get some perspective on the matter, Cas pulled his phone out of the pocket of his trench coat, and hit the first number on his speed dial.

The phone rang three times, and Cas had already climbed back into his car, ready to start the ignition when his brother picked up.

“Castiel? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Michael,” Cas said, trying to keep his voice from sounding too strained. “Really, I’m fine. I was just hoping you’d be willing to meet me for lunch? Heaven? I’ll buy.”

“Sure,” Michael said, his tone indicating he didn’t fully buy Cas’ reassurances that nothing was amiss. “What time?”

Cas glanced down at the watch on his wrist. “Will an hour be sufficient?” he asked

“That’s fine. I’ll let Hester know where I’m going and meet you there.”

“Thank you, Michael. I’ll see you soon.”

“Sure thing, Castiel.”

Cas hung up and quickly buckled and turned on the ignition. He needed to make a stop by his apartment before meeting up with Michael. He was going to need evidence for this conversation.

* * *

After Michael had read through the last letter Cas had given him for what seemed like the third time, Cas shifted uncomfortably. His brother hadn’t said anything yet and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. He suddenly doubted his own sanity yet again.

“Go ahead,” he sniped.

“Go ahead and what?” Michael asked, far too calmly for Cas’ liking.

“It’s crazy isn’t it? This can’t be happening?” He gestured to the letters scattered across the table as he spoke. Cas hadn’t given Michael all of the letters to read. Some were too personal. Cas didn’t feel it was right to share Dean’s thoughts and stories without his permission. But he had included almost all the conversationally snarky letters they had exchanged.

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first person to fall in love with a pen pal, I’m sure,” Michael said, bringing his coffee cup to his lips and arching a brow at Cas through the steam.

Cas snorted. “Yes, and I’m sure it’s also common to have a pen pal who happens to live two years in the past.”

Michael shrugged. “Technicality.”

Cas’ jaw dropped. He had a hard time believing the man in front of him was his practical, down to earth, sometimes overbearing brother.

Michael’s mouth quirked into a small smile. “Look, Castiel. It seems as though you’ve got something good going here. To be honest? It’s been nice seeing you happy about something these last few weeks. If this is what’s causing it, I’m not going to question it.”

Eyebrows currently residing somewhere in the vicinity of his hairline, Cas looked off to the side at nothing in particular as he tried to comprehend what his brother was saying. Turning back, he spoke in a low voice that wouldn’t carry. “You aren’t going to question something that flies in the face of temporal mechanics? I’ve done research, trying to find anything else like this, any plausible explanation. There’s nothing.”

“Have you considered that it’s perhaps a miracle?” Michael asked.

When Cas had no answer beyond staring at him, Michael sighed and set down his coffee cup.

“Look. I know you set aside much of your faith in God when you went through medical school, maybe even when Mom and Dad died, but I still believe. I still believe God is up there. That he’s willing to make good things happen for good people. While I admit, I might be biased, you’re one of the best people out there, Castiel. Why shouldn’t you have this gift?”

“Some gift,” Cas muttered. “I’m falling for a man I’ll never be able to meet.”

Michael smiled, “Maybe the miracle isn’t done with you yet.”

* * *

The seasons shifted as winter gave way to spring, and by early May, the first tantalizing hints of summer. With the warmer weather, Cas tended to take advantage of his close proximity to the hospital and often chose to eschew his car in favor of walking. The brisk mornings were refreshing, and he enjoyed the light fluttering of leaves on Dean’s tree just outside his apartment building.

On Thursday night, Castiel found himself alone on a barstool at the Roadhouse. He was sure if he’d mentioned his plans, Balthazar would have been more than happy to join him. More than likely though, he would have insisted on doing more than just going down to the local bar.

Despite his best intentions, Cas was only about fifteen minutes into his first drink, when Balthazar plopped down unceremoniously onto the stool next to him.

“So, you do realize that as your mentor I have access to your file and I took note of very specific things when you came on board with us a few months ago, right?”

While Cas was aware Balthazar had access to his file, he honestly didn’t expect he’d use it for anything more than looking at his credentials.

“Seriously? You weren’t going to say anything at all?”

“If you knew, I’m surprised you didn’t say anything,” Cas said honestly. “I figured you would have told at least our whole floor by now.”

“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted,” Balthazar said, a wicked gleam in his eye, “but usually when someone wants their birthday celebrated, they drop hints. I watched you all week. Nothing. And having seen your anger when roused,” Balthazar gave an exaggerated shudder. Cas knew he was recalling an incident a few weeks ago when he’d come across a set of parents who were dead set, _vocal,_ anti-vaxers. While Cas had no legal means to force them to vaccinate their three-year old son, he had gone into far more clinical detail than strictly necessary when he explained to them exactly what their level of parental neglect could bring about. It hadn’t been pretty. More than one nurse had stepped lightly around him for the next few days.

“Yes, well, I don’t really know what the point is,” Cas said, looking down into his glass. And he didn’t. This year especially, all it reminded him of was the passage of time, and that was always accompanied by the knowledge that time was exactly what separated him from what he wanted most right now.

“The point? Who cares? It’s an excuse to have the whole day be about you for a change. Have everyone be at your beck and call. And at the end of it all, you get to party!”

Snorting into his drink, Cas looked at his companion as though he was a few feathers short of full flight. “Balthazar, do I really strike you as the type that enjoys to party?”

“Everyone loves a good party occasionally.  Come on. Really. When was the last time you had a big blow out of a party for your birthday? You can’t know you don’t like them until you’ve had at least one.”

“As it happens, I have. My last boyfriend threw one for me almost as soon as we’d moved in together. There were still boxes everywhere. Surprise party of course,” Cas lifted his glass and tilted his head. “He knew I’d never agree to it if he asked me straight out. I’d just gotten off a long shift and really just wanted to go home and have the quiet evening he’d promised me. Instead, I walk into a room full of almost entirely strangers, all shouting, ‘surprise,’ at me.” Cas cringed at the memory

Balthazar, the bastard, was smirking at him over the rim of his glass. “Surely there was something redeeming about this festering hellhole of a party that your devil of a boyfriend threw for you,” he asked, his voice over dramatizing the adjectives.

“Funny you should mention it actually. There was this one guy I’d never met before. Of course, there were a lot of those at the party, but this one was different. I don’t know. He seemed nice…”

“Sounds to me, if you’d really liked to have had a good birthday, you would have kicked out everyone else and kept the stranger and your boyfriend and seen what would have happened together,” Balthazar said, winking.

Cas rolled his eyes before letting them glazed over as he recalled the stranger from that night. Funny. Cas hadn’t thought of him in two years, but twice in the last two months, he’d come up again. He was the same stranger Crowley had accused him of kissing when they’d gone to dinner a few weeks back. Yet Cas couldn’t even remember the guy’s name, if he’d ever known it to begin with.

Wait, yes, he did remember the name, but – no. Cas shook his head. He had to be remembering wrong.

Slipping off his stool, he pulled out his wallet to put a couple bills on the bar to cover his tab.

“Wait,” Balthazar said. “Where are you going?”

“I need to check something,” Cas said.

Balthazar grabbed the bills on the counter and handed them back to him. “Fine. But I’ve got this. Happy birthday, mate.”

Smiling, Cas gave him a quick salute and hurried out the door.

 ****

The days seemed to both drag along and fly by in the month following John Winchester’s death. As horrible as it sounded, Dean had to acknowledge that upheaval in the business really couldn’t have come at a worse time. Late spring was their busiest season as new orders came in and older requests were scheduled to be finished in time for a summer move in date.

John, Bobby, and Dean might have all been equal partners in the business, but it was John who had moved between the two job sites they ran, making sure everything was in top shape. With John gone, Bobby took over this role, leaving Dean to fully oversee the Kripke Hollow site.

Sam evidently recognized pushing Dean to make a decision about selling his share of Colt Construction to start another business in some hair brained scheme wouldn’t be wise. Dean knew the reprieve wouldn’t be long, but he took advantage of every second. He hadn’t even had time to sit down and really process that his father was dead yet, much less what that would mean for the rest of his life. If it hadn’t been for Cas and the letters, Dean was pretty sure he’d go stark raving mad.

As it was, he was also pretty sure Cas was the only reason he’d let the damn cat stay. He didn’t have a clue why Gabriel had adopted Dean. He really seemed rather indifferent, if not downright disdainful of him, but he did stick around. As a result, Dean found himself stocking up on cat food and locking up his sweets. He didn’t see much of the furball around the house, but he did seem to sense when Dean was writing Cas a longer letter at night, often hopping up on the table to investigate.

Overall, as was painfully true after any death, whether the person was important to one person or one million people, Dean found that life moved on.

On a Tuesday in mid-May, Dean pulled up to the job site to see Lisa leaning against the side of the office, a grin on her face and a baseball in her hand. When he stepped out of the Impala, she called out to him, “Ben was hoping you’d be up for a round at the batting cages this afternoon.”

Dean grinned back. It had been at least a week since he’d found time to hang out with Ben, and the prospect of a few hours in the cages with the kid sounded great. Just as he was about to tell Lisa as much, something golden and furry leapt over into the front seat of the car and shot out the door like a streak.

“Shit!” Dean said, startled by the sudden movement and experiencing a moment of irrational panic that he was about to lose Cas’ cat. “Gabriel!” he called, taking off after the feline as fast as he could. Some part of his brain registered that Lisa was chasing with him, easily keeping up as he turned a corner onto a row of brownstones.

He barely managed to stop in time to prevent plowing into a shorter, squarely built man currently overseeing the unloading of several boxes of food and beer from a car. Gabriel, of course, sat calmly at the man’s feet, tail twitching lazily back and forth along the ground.

The man, wearing a three-piece suit that appeared to be tailored to him, seemed vaguely familiar to Dean, but he couldn’t place him. He looked down at the cat before meeting Dean’s eye and raising an eyebrow. “Yours, I presume?” He spoke with a British accent that was rough, as though the man had either smoked one too many cigarettes in his lifetime, or spent hours a day yelling at other people.

“Sort of,” Dean said, out of breath. Lisa had come to a halt just beside him, barely winded. He was going to have to look into that yoga crap she was always going on about. “Hanging on to him for a friend for a while.” He bent down and scooped Gabriel into his arms.

“Wow,” Lisa said, eyeing all the goods making their way into the small brownstone behind them. “Looks like you’re planning to throw one heck of a party here.”

“Yes, actually,” the man said. “Today happens to be my boyfriend, Castiel’s birthday. I wanted to do something special for him. You’re welcome to come if you like. My name’s Crowley, Fergus Crowley, but please, just use my surname.” He held out his hand to shake. Lisa paused only for a few seconds before accepting the offer when it became obvious Dean was caught in a moment of some kind.

Shaking his head clear when he realized both Lisa and Crowley were looking at him oddly, Dean extended his hand. “Nice to meet you. Dean Winchester. Your boyfriend’s name is Castiel?” he asked, to be sure. There couldn’t be that many Castiels in Chicago, and Dean was almost positive this man was the same one he’d seen on the train platform with Cas, even if he hadn’t been focused on him at the time.

“Yes, odd name, I know, but hey, he’s a bit of an odd duck himself, so it fits. As I said, you should both come tonight. He’s nearing the end of his residency so he doesn’t get out much. In my opinion, the more the merrier, right?”

“Your boyfriend’s a doctor?” Lisa asked politely while Dean’s insides danced the jig. He was brought back to earth when Gabriel quite literally reached out a paw and smacked the grin off his face.

“Ouch, you little hellion,” Dean said, frowning down at the cat.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Crowley said with a small smile. “The Egyptians claim that cats guard the entrance to the afterlife, but I’ve always prefered the Greek interpretation that dogs were better protectors of the underworld itself.”

Lisa choked back a bit of a laugh and Dean blinked in surprise. “So, uh, what time’s the party?” he asked, ignoring Lisa’s look of amusement.

“Six o’clock, although the birthday boy won’t be here until closer to six thirty. It’s a surprise party, so I’d like everyone in place ahead of time.”

“Well, alright then, thanks, man,” Dean said, turning. With Gabriel still tightly clenched in his arms to prevent another untimely escape, he grinned at Lisa, “It’s Castiel’s birthday!”

* * *

It was Cas’ birthday and Dean was a nervous wreck. At least he’d been able to take his mind off of the party for a few hours that afternoon with Ben, but then he’d had to rush home, shower, change, and what the hell should he wear? Did it even matter? It’s not like this Cas had any idea who he was. From the sounds of it, Crowley had invited anyone he could. There was a high chance he wouldn’t even get a chance to talk to Cas. And how weird was it that he’d been invited to the birthday party of the guy he really liked, by the guy’s ex-boyfriend, who wasn’t actually his ex-boyfriend yet? Was this even really a moral thing for him to do?

At least Lisa would be there with him. Over the past few months, they’d gone out for drinks a few more times and mutually agreed that they were better off if they remained friends. Dean was happy Lisa was still willing to let him be a part of Ben’s life too. Having her there tonight would give him a bit of a buffer if he needed it, even if she had no idea why.

Knowing parking was likely to be tight near the party itself, they’d decided to meet at the job site and walk to the brownstone from there. As they passed the streets lined with cars, he was glad of the decision.

As he suspected, it looked like half of Chicago was crammed into the little townhouse. From everything Dean had learned about Cas, this didn’t seem like the kind of party he would choose for himself.

Dean forced himself to stop that train of thought before he could start comparing himself to Crowley. This wasn’t a competition. Besides, Dean already knew Castiel and Crowley would be breaking up sometime in the next six months. There was nothing to be jealous about.

He and Lisa made small talk for a little while before she found a tall man named Matt to talk to. He left her to it, willing to be a wingman, and knowing when to back off. He let her know he would be near the front door in case she needed anything and left them alone to get to know each other.

It was getting close to six-thirty and Dean wanted to be near the door when Cas came in. He couldn’t explain why. He reminded himself that Cas didn’t have a clue he even existed. Maybe he was just starved for a look. Maybe he hoped on some level, Cas _would_ know him.

“They’re coming!” a short, energetic blonde woman cried, bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet. “Quick! Everyone get into positions!”

She turned out the light and everyone crowded into the foyer, leaving a horseshoe of open space for Cas and Crowley to enter into. In the last minute shuffle, Dean elbowed himself into a position so that he would be one of the first people Cas saw. He earned a glare from a short, but intimidating, middle-aged Asian woman for his efforts, but he shrugged it off. Any minute now, he would be able to see Cas, face to face, in the flesh.

The knob on the door turned, and Dean felt his pulse skyrocket. His eyes were glued to the entryway, and to Cas, watching for every minutia of his expression as he took in the crowd in front of him. He felt almost triumphant when he saw a flash of irritation before Cas masked it with a level of false cheer. Dean tamped that down quickly though. After all, this was Cas’ birthday. As much as he wanted to see Crowley fall flat on his face, he wanted Cas to enjoy his birthday more.

As Cas’ eyes scanned the faces of the crowd, it was clear he recognized virtually no one. Dean tried to give a little wave of support, immediately kicking himself. Cas didn’t have a clue who he was. Still, he thought Cas eyes lingered on him for at least a second longer than was strictly necessary, breaking away just before he could make proper eye contact.

Dean realized he wasn’t breathing once Cas’ gaze moved on, and he rectified that by taking in a large gulp of air. Seriously, he needed to get his shit together or this was gonna be one hell of a long and awkward night.

Usually at a party Dean was pretty good at mingling; making small talk, dropping meaningless flirtation here or there came easily to him. Tonight though, he found himself aggravated whenever anyone tried to talk to him, distracting him from watching Cas. In all honesty, if Cas noticed what Dean was doing, he would be well within his rights to call him a stalker. Dean was just as glad Cas didn’t notice him. He certainly didn’t want to scare the guy, just get a chance to see how he moved, talked, and if he was really lucky, laughed.

He didn’t seem to be in much of a laughing mood tonight. After the third or fourth interruption, Dean managed to find a chair in a corner. It was seated next to a small desk and had clearly been placed there to make more space. By sitting here though, he was partially obscured from the rest of the room, while still maintaining a clear vantage point. He watched Cas move and converse with guests as politeness dictated, but his smile was small and tight-lipped. Nothing about his expression said he was enjoying the evening. At one point, Crowley handed Castiel a brightly wrapped package. Cas carefully opened the paper to reveal fabric - and more fabric, and more fabric. As it pooled to the ground, a feeling akin to jealousy stirred in Dean’s gut. It was hard not to recognize the scarf as the one Cas had sent him through the mailbox.

Dean watched as Crowley, who’d been shepherding Cas from one group to another with a guiding hand on the small of his back, held up a finger to indicate he’d be back in a moment before leaving Cas stranded in the middle of the room. With a glance around him, Cas took no time to steal the advantage and slip out the back door. Hesitating, Dean wrestled with whether he should follow or not. He obviously wanted an opportunity to be alone, but this might be Dean’s only chance _ever_ to have a real conversation with the guy.

That last thought was enough to push him up and out of his chair, following Cas out into the blessedly cool evening.

It was surprisingly quiet for a Chicago suburb, but perhaps that was only in relation to the noise of at least seventy-five people in an enclosed space with music in the background. Every now and then, strains of those sounds filtered into the night, but for the most part, the open space was a pocket of peace and quiet.

Cas sat on the back step, leading down into a small yard. His eyes were trained on a small flowerbed, where a few bees still lazily buzzed around the petals. Feeling like a dick, but not wanting to pass up the opportunity, Dean cleared his throat.

The focus of his attention startled visibly, before turning around to peer up at him, his eyes narrowed in sharp speculation.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Hi, uh, yeah. Sorry,” Dean had no idea what to say and wanted to kick himself for such a monumentally stupid move. Cas was going to think he was a jackass. “You’re, uh, you’re Cas, right?”

“Castiel. And yes, I am.” Cas turned back away from Dean to look over the yard. It was the first time Dean had actually heard Cas’ voice, deep and low. He was surprised at how much it matched up with the voice in his head, even if it didn’t necessarily match the image of the man in front of him.

Certain Cas would have wanted him to do exactly the opposite, but refusing to back down, Dean walked over and sat down on the step next to him. Cas shot a glance in his direction, before resuming his nature watch in silence.

“So, uh, why, uh, why do you hate being called Cas?” Dean asked. He remembered how stubborn Cas had been about that in their letters at the outset.

Heaving a sigh of resigned acceptance to Dean’s presence, he turned, angling his body a little to see Dean better. “I had a teacher in elementary school. She insisted on calling me Cassie. As a young boy, that led to quite a bit of teasing. Since then, I’ve preferred not to shorten my name.”

Warmth bloomed in Dean’s chest, and when Cas narrowed his eyes at him again, he realized he was grinning like an idiot. The other man probably thought he was laughing at him, or at least his story. He had no way of knowing how happy it made Dean that Cas not only let Dean give him a nickname, but he’d accepted to the point that he used it himself.

Cas turned back to the yard again, trying to politely indicate to Dean his desire to be alone. Dean cast around for some other topic that they might be able to talk about that Cas would be interested in.

“Have you ever read a book called, _Supernatural_?” Dean asked.

Cas’ head snapped around so fast, Dean was a little worried he might get whiplash.

“Why would you ask me about that?” he asked, almost harshly.

Dean blinked in surprise. That wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d been expecting, but he could roll with it.

“A friend of mine recommended it a while back. I wanted to get a second opinion, see if it was worth my time to read it.”

“Oh,” Cas softened a bit, the tension of the night easing out of his shoulders. “Sorry. This - I just wasn’t expecting all this. It’s been a long day and I’m a little tired.”

“It’s okay, man. I’m not a huge fan of surprise parties myself.”

Cas smiled, a wide genuine smile. Dean was glad it wasn’t his turn to talk, because he was sure anything he had to say was guaranteed to come out as a garbled mess.

“So your friend is right,” Cas said.

Dean’s brow furrowed in confusion. What friend?

“The book,” Cas clarified. “You really should read it. I’m a little more biased than the average person,” he paused. For a moment, Dean thought he was going to confess that his stepdad had been the one to write the story, but instead, he just shook his head minutely.

“So, what is it about?”

“Well, it’s two stories in one, actually,” Cas said, warming up to the subject. “They’re meant to run parallel with each other. It’s about two sets of brothers. One set is human, while the other is angelic. The angelic brothers are destined to be pit against one another, ultimately leading to the biblical apocalypse. The human brothers are destined to be their tools - weapons they need in order to win. Both sets of brothers deal with similar problems; absent fathers, high expectations, differences of opinions, but it’s how they deal with them that determine their fate. There’s another angel, well, several, but this one plays the most significant role. He’s always been my favorite.”  
“Yeah?” Dean asked, watching Cas closely, “why’s that?”

“Well, first of all, we share the same name,” Cas said, his mouth quirking ever so slightly at the corner, “so you could say I have a sort of inherent affinity to him.”

Dean snorted. He didn’t mean to. He knew Cas’ dad had worked Cas and his brother in as characters - Cas had told him as much himself. However, the wry look on Cas’ face, as though he realized liking a character that shared this particularly unusual trait just for that trait would seem rather superfluous to an outsider, amused Dean.

“I know, I know. You don’t come across many Castiel’s in literature, you know. But it’s not just that. Castiel in the book was always looking for a place to fit in. He’s an angel, but he doesn’t share either of his brothers’ views. He’s intended to be the bridge between Heaven and humanity. In the process, he grows significantly as a character.”

“Sounds very,” Dean searched around for the right word, “literary.”

Cas looked over at Dean, surprised, before throwing back his head in a sharp laugh. He leaned back, relaxing and supporting himself on his hands where they rested on the rough wood of the porch. The grin didn’t leave his face as he met Dean’s gaze. “I guess that description does give it a more literary standing than it will probably ever achieve in reality. Let’s just say it’s a good story with a lot of action, violence and gore, but at its core, it’s a story about brothers, and, as some choose to read it, about love. Though that last bit is never canonically stated in the book itself, I have it from a reliable source that the implication was intentional and real.”

“So it’s all in the subtext?”

Cas grinned again, “Exactly.”

“Huh, guess I should read it then.”

“Hmmm,” Cas responded, still relaxed, but looking back out at the yard again.

Dean started to panic, not ready for the conversation to end just yet, needing an excuse to stay near Cas just a little longer. As he was digging around for _something,_ someone propped the back door open - likely to cool off the overcrowded room inside - and a swell of music escaped out into the night.

The song had just started, and Dean immediately recognized the low notes of, “Hey, Jude.” Energized with a sudden idea, he stood up and bounded down the steps to the grass, holding out a hand to Cas. “C’mon,” he said, smiling.

Cas tilted his head at him, narrowing his eyes as though trying to figure out exactly what it was Dean was asking of him.

Dean rolled his eyes, looking up at the sky before looking back at Cas again, “Dance with me, dude. It’s your birthday. You should dance at least once.”

Cas watched Dean for a few seconds more, head still tilted as though he was trying to solve a puzzle. Dean just waited, hand still outstretched. To his delight, Cas pushed himself off the step, taking a moment to brush the seat of his pants, before coming over and standing a little too close in Dean’s personal space for just a friendly conversation.

Fortunately, that’s not what Dean had in mind. Slotting their hands together, he put Cas’ hand on his waist, while he did the same. Not a fabulous dancer by any standards, Dean wasn’t out to impress Cas with his moves; he was more than content just to sway back and forth on the lawn. Right now, he was happy. Happier than he really felt he had a right to be. For this moment, Cas was actually in his arms. Not in the form of words written in some distant future he couldn’t touch. He could pretend they were together, and this was real. Even if only for the length of this song.

As the final notes faded into the night air, Cas glanced up at him. During the course of the song, they’d moved closer together, until their chests were flush. Far closer than was technically necessary for an informal birthday dance between strangers, but Dean certainly didn’t mind. It didn’t seem as though Cas did either.

Dean leaned forward slightly, as though magnetically drawn. He paused, searching Cas’ face, and eyes for any denial, any clue that this wasn’t something he wanted too. Instead, Cas closed the rest of the distance, his lips lightly brushing against Dean’s. The kiss was sweet and chaste, and Dean knew he couldn’t take it any further, but it was enough. It was everything.

Until a sharp call of, “ _Castiel,_ ” echoed across the yard.

Castiel broke the kiss suddenly, jumping back as though electrocuted, before schooling his expression and turning a passive gaze in Crowley’s direction.

Dean looked over as well, grateful that the cover of the dark night would hide how he clenched his jaw in frustration over the untimely interruption. Slightly behind Crowley stood Lisa, who raised an eyebrow at him in question. Damn. He wasn’t going to hear the end of this on their walk back to the site that was for sure.

To his intense regret, Cas slipped from his arms, the cool air flooding in where the other man’s warmth had been only seconds ago.

“Calm down, Crowley, we were just dancing,” Castiel said in exasperation.

“Yes,” Crowley said tightly, “I could tell.” He turned to Dean. “Winchester, is it?” he asked. Dean got the impression the question was rhetorical. The man didn’t seem like the type to forget names easily and was even less likely to forget him now.

“Yep,” Dean said, refusing to be cowed.

“I do believe your lady friend here is ready to be escorted home. I suggest you do that.”

Dean threw him a mocking salute, nodding to Cas as he passed by him and trying to suppress the pain in his chest as he walked away.

Playtime was over.

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

Dean smiled at Cas’ last response. It was going to happen. Yeah, he had a hell of a wait in front of him, but he could live with that. Meeting Cas at the party had settled a lot inside him. Before, this whole thing between them had felt so intangible. As though it could drift apart like a wisp of smoke on a windy day. But now he’d held Cas in his arms. He’d talked to him face to face. He’d seen him laugh and it had been the greatest feeling Dean could remember. He wanted it back. If that meant waiting two years, he’d do it. He was accustomed to waiting for the things he wanted after all. At least this had a specified end date. Something he could put on a calendar and count down towards.

Sliding the paper into his back pocket, Dean climbed into the Impala. He’d agreed to meet Sam for lunch and was already running late. He was sure his reprieve from making a decision was coming to a close. Sam had told him he needed an answer by June first and the end of May was already in sight.

He still didn’t know what he wanted to do. A large part of him wanted to drop everything and jump on board with his brother. Sam was right; this had always been their dream. Restoration was what he loved, what he was best at. He’d already put a ton of work into the lake house, even though he still hadn’t managed to fix the dominant flaws in the basic architecture.

And there was Cas.

Dean had largely avoided mentioning Resurrection Restoration to Cas outside of a project his brother wanted him to do. But even without discussing it, Cas gave him the confidence to think he could do it, maybe even succeed where his father hadn’t.

That really was the crux of the whole thing. Abandoning Colt Construction to open his own original architecture firm seemed like a direct betrayal to everything John had stood for at the end of his life. He’d tried the innovative architecture thing and never managed to make a go at it. It had lost him his wife and one of his sons, even if he and Sam had managed to come to some small peace in the end. Could he just bail on what his father built? So soon after he’d put the man in the ground?

Dean would be the first to admit John hadn’t been the best father to him, but he’d taught Dean everything he knew about architecture, building, and the responsibility the artist had to the integrity of a finished home. That wasn’t something he could set aside lightly.

His thoughts carrying him all the way into the city, Dean pulled into an open spot about a block away from The Roadhouse. Even from this distance, Dean could see his brother’s lumbering frame leaning against the wall next to the door, one foot braced against the brick exterior.

When Dean got close enough, he raised his hand in greeting. Sam pushed off the wall and waved back. “I’m guessing since you’re so late, you’re paying for lunch right?” he asked, grinning at Dean.

“Hello, no. I had things to do, jerk.”

“Bitch,” Sam responded fondly as he pulled the door open and let his brother step in front of him into the more subdued interior. The Roadhouse was a popular spot, especially amongst the locals, but it was hardly hopping an hour past the lunch rush when there were no games on.

“So what had you so tied up you’re thirty minutes late for a chance to eat Ellen’s pie?”

“I was dealing with some mail issues.”

Sam frowned. “What, is the mailman not delivering or something? I can’t imagine you’re getting someone else’s mail all the way out in the middle of nowhere.”

Dean avoided looking at Sam as he slid into the booth. In reality, the mailman didn’t come out to his place at all. He’d taken out a P.O. Box at the post office near the job site. It was an easy place to pick up his mail and he didn’t have to worry about some faceless postal worker accidentally intercepting a letter to or from Cas. Talk about lost in the mail.

“It’s nothin’, man.”

Sam was like a dog with a bone when he sensed Dean was hiding something. He’d been like that since they were kids. Now that they were both trying hard to mend the silence of the last few years, he’d become tenacious.

“If it was nothing, I doubt you’d be late. You could always take care of it later. So, that means it was something. Besides, why else would you avoid answering?”

Dean held up a hand in front of him to stop Sam’s stream of questioning. “Dude, really? What’s with the third degree? It’s mail.” It was much more than mail, but how the hell would Sam know that?

“Look, Dean. I’ve seen you writing constantly lately. You’ve always got pen and paper with you. I was hoping maybe you were making plans or thinking about Resurrection, but you haven’t said anything about it, so now I’m thinking it’s something else.”

Damn. Dean was left with one of two choices – tell Sam about Cas, or talk about his - their - dream company. He could try and deflect, but Sam would likely figure that out and bring the subject back around until he got an answer.

One thing was for sure; he wasn’t ready to talk about the company yet. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about Cas either, but honestly, he didn’t know if it was something he could keep to himself much longer. This relationship, or whatever it was, was the most real he’d ever experienced. It felt significant, and it seemed weird that no one else in his life knew about it.

A waitress, one of the newer part-timers Dean didn’t know well yet, stopped by and dropped two beers and two waters off at their table, which meant Ellen had seen them. Both men smiled up at her and thanked her. When she walked away, Dean dropped his shoulders, running a hand through his hair, eyes pointedly looking off to the side. “I, uh, I kinda have a pen pal,” he said.

Snorting into his beer, Sam had to put it down before he choked.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Dean groused, slouching further into the booth. He could feel himself getting defensive, and why in hell did he think this was a good idea?

“I heard you, I’m just not sure I actually believe it.” At Dean’s dark glare, Sam held up the hand not holding his beer placatingly. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I believe you have a...pen pal...but I’m having a hard time picturing it. I mean, who even does that anymore? Most people just use the Internet these days. You know, on computers?” Sam asked, raising both eyebrows, the corner of his mouth twitching suspiciously upward.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Dean snapped, not really wanting to get into an argument with Sam, but still feeling more exposed than he was comfortable with. “I do know how to use a computer you know. Pretty friggin’ hard to do my job if I didn’t. The situation is just - different, ok?”

Sam’s face softened, and Dean wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. As much as he wanted to talk about Cas, he wasn’t sure if he was completely onboard the feelings train he was pretty sure Sammy was getting ready to start driving.

“So, how’d you meet?”

Oh and wasn’t that just a simple question. And it should have been. It was the most obvious. But how much did Dean really wanna tell his brother? How much would Sam be willing to believe?

“He lived in the lake house at some point in time,” Dean hedged. “Left a note for the next tenant. I happened to find it.” Well. It was the truth at least.

“Uh huh,” Sam said, narrowing his eyes speculatively. “And you just decided to write back?”

He knew it wasn’t exactly his M.O., Dean could admit that. He shrugged. “Not really. Some of the stuff he said didn’t really make sense. Left a note in the mailbox in case he came back. Letter didn’t look that old. He came back.”

“So you actually got to meet him in person?”

“No, he just came to the mailbox. We’ve been exchanging letters back and forth. I never see him there.”

“Wait, wait, let me get this straight. This guy you’ve never met, comes to your house - your house in the middle of nowhere - and leaves messages in your mailbox, but you’ve never met him?”

“Well, we’re never exactly there at the same time, Sammy,” Dean said, smirking proudly to himself. He might have to tell Cas that one later.

“And neither of you ever thought to, I don’t know, pick a time or date when you both _would_ be there? Or say, actually exchange phone numbers or something?”

“Well, we did agree to go out to dinner. That’s what I was taking care of this afternoon. I actually need to make a stop on the way out. Gotta make reservations.”

Sam narrowed his eyes and turned his mouth downward as though he wasn’t sure what to think about Dean making _reservations_ , but he was stalled from asking any other questions by the return of the waitress. She took their order before offering to refill their drinks. Both men declined a second beer, though Dean thought if this conversation went much further into the weeds, he might regret that.

“So I take it this is more than just a friendship then,” Sam said, staring Dean down.

Sighing, Dean looked down at the scuffed wood of the well-worn tabletop. “Yeah, Sam. This is more than just a friendship.”

Something in Dean’s voice, or perhaps the expression on his face, must have tipped Sam off not to press too much harder. Dean was grateful Sam had taken the hint to cut him some slack, even if it wasn’t much.

“So, get this,” Sam said, changing the subject. “I’ve been looking into what our competition would be like in the city, and I think with your real world experience, and my degree, plus Dad’s background in the field, we’d have a pretty good leg up. I mean, our family name is already out there in the business, it would just be a change in style, really.” Sam looked at Dean intently, not giving him a chance to break eye contact and avoid the subject. Dean just sighed, throwing down his napkin onto the table in defeat as he collapsed back against the booth.

“Ok, Sam, let’s hear it.” He held up a hand to forestall the look of excitement on his brother’s face. “Look, I’m not saying yes. I still don’t know, man. I haven’t made any decisions one way or the other. I really don’t know that I can do this. But I’ll listen. Lay it on me.”

They spent the next hour and a half discussing details, Dean filling Sam in on some of the pertinent facts about what it would take to run a business in the city of Chicago. At one point, Ellen came over and joined them, swatting Dean upside the back of his head for not coming to see her more often before getting back up to prep the bar for the evening rush.

“Oh, shit,” Sam said, looking down at his watch, “I need to go, I’m supposed to be getting a haircut in twenty minutes.”

Dean smirked, and Sam’s exasperated expression fell into a classic bitch face. “Don’t start,” he said. “I’m getting a trim. And I can do without the comments about cutting it in my sleep too, thank you very much.”

Holding up his hands in surrender, Dean slid out of the booth and reached for his jacket. “Hey man, I’m just wondering if this is going to be your look as you attempt to enter the world as a professional business man.”

Throwing a wave to Ellen behind the bar, they continued to bicker until they stepped outside into the afternoon sunshine.

“I’ll see you later, man,” Sam said, smiling. “And I expect to hear about your hot date!”

Dean snorted, “You’ll be waiting a while!” He knew Sammy thought he was just being difficult. For some reason, that just made it funnier.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk!”

Dean stood, watching, as his brother walked in the opposite direction, suddenly overwhelmingly grateful to have Sam back in his life again. Even if he could be a persistent bastard on occasion.  

It was about a fifteen minute drive to Missouri’s, but Dean couldn’t stop smiling. He knew it was still going to be a long ass wait until he got to see Cas again, but at least he was actually putting something into action. He did briefly wonder if once they met in Cas’ time, the letters would stop. After all, Cas would have the real him. Why write to past him? It would make for a very lonely two years. Most people, including Sam, would probably try and tell him it was unhealthy, and not worth it, but Dean knew he could do it.

What he’d found with Cas through their letters was a connection he’d never had before. It was more than special, it was profound.

Given the time of day, Dean didn’t have any problems trying to find a spot to park Baby in front of the restaurant. Shoving his hands in his pocket, he walked through the front door, extremely aware that he wasn’t exactly dressed the way a place like this would require, but surely that wouldn’t matter if he was just making the reservations right?

He walked up to the hostess. She was tall, but had a slight frame, with dark, shoulder length, brown hair.

“Can I help you?” She asked, giving him a once over and raising her head in mild disdain.

Dean brushed it off. Glancing down slightly, he read her nametag before responding. “Uh… yeah, hi… uh, Hannah. I’d like to make a reservation?”

Hannah pursed her lips, the corners turning up ever so slightly in what Dean would almost classify as pride or arrogance. “We’re booked out for the next three months.”

“Uh, yeah, actually, I was hoping I could make the reservations exactly two years from tonight.”

She blinked, all hints of her disapproval of Dean vanishing, replaced with surprise. “Two years?” she repeated.

“From tonight, please.” Dean said firmly.

Flipping the book open in front of her, Hannah smiled again, but this time, she seemed more impressed than smug. “I think we can accommodate you Mr…”

“Winchester,” Dean said. “Dean Winchester.”

She wrote down his name, and looked back up at him, all traces of hostility gone in her interest over the unusual booking. “All set,” she said. “We’ll see you in two years.”

Dean flashed her a smile, feeling like he was on cloud nine. Two years was nothing.

 ****

Cas was nervous.

Nervous was more of an understatement. After months of writing back and forth, of wondering what Dean would be like in person, and trying to dredge up vague memories of a person who’d been a complete stranger to him years ago, he was finally getting a chance to meet the man he had fallen in love with.

Strange, how now that the prospect of Dean becoming a tangible part of his life made the idea of being in love with him so much easier to admit. Cas wasn’t sure when it had started, but now that he’d acknowledged it, there was no denying the truth of it. The mere thought of Dean, of the stories and insights he’d shared with Cas, made Cas feel safe, comfortable even. Though Cas probably loved living in the lake house more than anywhere else, Dean’s words felt more like home than any brick and mortar structure ever had.

What if when they met, it all fell apart? He tried to tell himself that Dean had already met him and still wanted this. But there were so many other variables.

Dean had made the promise two years ago. What if something changed? What if Dean had met someone else? What if, what if, what if.

Typically very steady in his movements, Cas’ usual grace was marred by an unfamiliar clumsiness, as though he’d suddenly forgotten how to operate in his own body. He’d stopped at a convenience store that morning to grab a coffee from the serve yourself machine. Somehow, he’d managed to release half the container of hot liquid on himself and the floor. He’d been fortunate that he’d managed to jump back fast enough that he hadn’t actually burned himself, but his suit pants were rather the worse for wear. He’d changed into his scrubs once he reached his office, making a note to drop the sullied clothing at the drycleaners during his lunch break. Cas counted small blessings that he didn’t actually have any clinic hours today and wouldn’t need to be in formalwear.

That incident alone would have been an anomaly, but it hadn’t ended there. He’d crashed into Meg, forcing her to spill an armful of patient’s charts she’d been taking to file, somehow caught his stethoscope on a loose thread in his scrubs, ripping the pocket clean off, honest to God slipped on a small puddle of spilt orange juice in the cafeteria, falling back against Balthazar in the process and forcing the other doctor to wear his lunch.

“Balthazar, I am - I am truly sorry,” Cas stammered as he grabbed for a stack of napkins on a nearby table, futilely attempting to help dab away at a large blob of ketchup.

“Good lord, Castiel. What has gotten into you today? You’re like a cat surrounded by rocking chairs.”

Cas cringed, knowing the description wasn’t far off.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” That much was true at least. Anticipation had kept him up well into the small hours of the morning.

“Yes, well, might I suggest you confine your sporadic bursts of incoordination? Preferably at least ten feet away from me, and ideally in private? After all, clumsy doctors don’t typically inspire the greatest level of confidence.”

“Your concern is touching and duly noted,” Cas responded dryly.

“Schadenfreude, my friend.”

Cas just sighed and shook his head. At least after that, he seemed to manage to get a grip on his sense of coordination and survived the rest of the day.

He didn’t tell anyone about his date with Dean, not even Michael. Confiding in someone would make it too real, opening up the possibility of too many things going wrong. Cas felt as though he was at a crossroads. Tonight could lead him in one of many directions, but he couldn’t read the street signs. He didn’t know where he was going to wind up at the end of it all.

Finally, his shift over, Cas dashed home to shower and get ready. He’d already chosen one of his nicer suits; a dark three piece that included a black waistcoat with almost invisibly thin pin striping, and a bright red tie. He knew he cut a nice figure in a waistcoat and hoped it would make a good impression on Dean. He tried to remind himself again that Dean had actually met him - had seen him in scrubs in fact, if memory served correctly - but it did little to assuage his need to convince Dean the wait had been worth it.

On the way to the restaurant, Cas tried to stop himself from picturing what would happen when he and Dean finally met face to face on equal terms. He’d never been the most socially adept person, although he’d improved a great deal in the past few years. Cas still wasn’t sure what the proper protocol was when meeting your across-time pen pal boyfriend for the first time. Should he offer to shake hands? Should he stand and give Dean a hug? Would Dean greet him with a kiss?

By the time he made it to the restaurant, Cas was flustered again. He was a little early and didn’t expect Dean to be there yet. Nevertheless, he parked his car and walked into the restaurant. Deciding it couldn’t hurt to go ahead and be seated, he moved towards the hostess stand.

The woman behind the podium had dark hair. A glance at her name badge told Cas her name was Hannah.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely, a mild tilt to her head and pleasant helpful demeanor in place.

“Yes, I have a reservation for two? Under Novak?”

Hannah glanced at the registry, a small frown forming on her face that Cas took to mean she couldn’t find the name. He wanted to smack himself when he realized the likely reason why.

“It might also be under Winchester,” he said, his voice mildly apologetic.

At hearing Dean’s name, Hannah’s head popped up. “Winchester?” she repeated.

“Yes,” Cas said nodding, somewhat uncertainly. Maybe Dean was already here after all.

A bright smile spread across her features, and her eyes lit up in surprise. “Yes, we have your reservation. We’ve been waiting for you for a while,” she said. “Your dining companion isn’t here yet. Would you like me to seat you now?” She seemed intrigued by Cas, as though she was holding back at least a dozen questions.

“Yes please, I would appreciate that,” Cas said, nerves easing considerably in the face of her eagerness to interact with him. Despite her curiosity, she did her job well, showing him to his table and offering him a wine menu to start off with while he waited for Dean, and refraining from asking whatever it was that she wanted to know.

Cas perused the wine menu thoughtfully. The selection was good, with high quality wines ranging from all over the world, including some of the lesser-seen regions of the United States. He spotted a few local vineyards on the list and made a note of it. He preferred supporting local businesses whenever he could. He was pleasantly surprised to find a few selections from Wild Blossom. They were oldest winery in the region and still the only meadery in Northern Illinois. Cas had been to their tasting room on more than one occasion. He had a fondness for honey wine and kept a small selection of their bottles on hand at home as well. It didn’t hurt that they raised their own bees, and advertised themselves as being environmentally friendly; all aspects Castiel admired and was happy to support. And of course, he enjoyed the taste. He wondered if Dean would appreciate wine. From what he’d gathered from the man’s letters, he tended to prefer beer, or perhaps a strong whiskey or scotch.

The waitress came over and took his drink order.

“Would you like to see a menu as well?” she asked, eyes wide and demeanor intense. She had straight, dark hair and large round glasses. He thought her dark red jacket and pleated skirt resembled a private school uniform, but with a little more tailoring.

“I’m fine, thank you. Just the wine for now. I’m waiting for my date,” Castiel said, almost tripping over the word “date.” Now that he was here, there was no denying it.

“Alright,” she said, smile extending wide, “I’ll bring your wine and be back to check on you in a few minutes. Oh, and my name’s Marie.”

Castiel smiled back, “Thank you, Marie.”

When she left, Cas glanced at his watch. Five after seven. Dean was late, but not horribly so. It was Monday night rush hour, after all. He could be patient.

Marie returned with his drink, asking again if he wanted to see the menu. He declined. Dean would be here soon. Except he wasn’t.

The evening wore on. Cas drank his wine slowly, as though he could stall the progression of time as well. The longer he sat there alone, still refusing to order, the more pathetic he felt. He knew Dean wasn’t going to come. He’d known it after the first hour. The longer he sat there, the more aware he was of the glances Hannah and Marie were giving him. Hannah looked concerned and a little angry on his behalf, while Marie was downright woeful, as though she was about to start crying for him. Both made him uncomfortable.

After three hours, he couldn’t deny it any longer. Dean had stood him up. Cas couldn’t even really bring himself to blame the other man. Two years had simply been too much to ask. He had been stupid and naive to get his own hopes up. Finally signaling for Marie to bring him his check, he was dismayed when she refused to charge him for the two glasses of wine he’d consumed.

With a sigh, he got up, leaving a generous sum of cash on the table - after all, he’d monopolized the woman’s table for several hours, it was the least he could do - and walked out of the restaurant.

He drove out to the lake house in a daze. He didn’t remember most of the trip. That realization should have scared him, but he felt too numb to care. He thought he’d done a fairly good job of keeping his hopes realistic. He knew two years would likely be too long to ask Dean to wait. If the hole in his chest was any indication, he hadn’t done nearly as well as he’d presumed. He hoped whatever had happened, that Dean was happy.

Once he reached the house, he pulled to a stop next to the mailbox. Tearing a sheet of paper from the notepad that always lived in his car now, Cas inhaled deeply to settle the torrent of thoughts flooding his mind. Though he wanted to write a novel’s worth of questions, they wouldn’t be questions Dean could answer. Instead, he wrote a single line before placing it inside and raising the flag. He didn’t look back as he drove away.  

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

Dean stared down at the stark letters, disbelieving. He had to be reading it wrong. But try as he might, the familiar, well-loved script stared him back, continuing to defy his expectation that if he looked hard enough, it would change.

There was no explanation, nothing he could give to Cas. No way to apologize that would make any difference. The Dean that stood Cas up was not the same Dean that he was right then.

He also knew Cas had delivered the letter sometime in the night. The flag, which had been down when he went to bed around eleven the night before, was already up when he got up around five that morning. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. Cas had come and gone in the night at a time when he knew Dean wouldn’t be able to reply.

A sharp fear stabbed through Dean’s chest as surely as a knife. What if Cas didn’t come back? What if he didn’t give Dean a chance to make this right? Dean wasn’t sure what he’d do. Could he forgive himself for something he hadn’t even done yet?

He grabbed the pen he’d put in his back pocket before heading out to the mailbox and using the box itself as his surface, quickly wrote back.

 

 

He put the letter in the box, raised the flag, and waited. He knew Cas wasn’t there. Wouldn’t even blame the guy, but he needed a chance. Somehow, he could make this come out right. He dragged a hand through his hair, nerves dancing a samba in his stomach.

Dean lost track of how much time he watched for some change. He shifted from foot to foot, eyes trained on the prize like a lion patiently waiting for its prey. A particularly generous gust of wind off the lake caused the old mailbox to shift and groan slightly and he’d all but pounced forward in anticipation of a letter. Of course, there was nothing there.

Eventually, he conceded defeat and walked back into the house where he took out his frustration on the guest bathroom, pulling old and dated tile off the shower wall with a vengeance. He was in the middle of taking a sledgehammer to the vanity when Sam appeared in the doorway.

“Well, I guess that explains why you didn’t hear me knock,” he said, jokingly, head tilted in question and eyes turned down in concern.

Dean sighed, straightening upright to face his brother. As he did, he dragged his arm across his brow to wipe some of the excess sweat he’d worked up out of the way.

“What’re you doing here?” Dean asked, perplexed.

“You had your date last night. Wanted to know how it went.”

Dean looked down and away, his gaze landing on the tub and eyes tracing the dust and grime created by the discarded grout.

“It, uh. It didn’t, ok?”

Sam blinked. “Wait. What? Why not? You were really excited about it. Did that Cas guy back out on you or something?”

“It just didn’t happen, ok Sam?” Dean snapped, really hoping his brother would drop it.

“No, Dean. Not ok. I’ve never seen you this excited about anyone before. And that was just yesterday. Now you’re here, obviously upset and taking it out on bathroom appliances. What gives?”

“I don’t know, ok? I’m still trying to figure it out myself.”

“Did he not show?”

Sam wasn’t going to let up. He never could let something drop, even as a kid. And just like when they were kids, Dean snapped.

“No, Sam. I didn’t show.”

“What the hell, Dean? What do you mean _you_ didn’t show? Please don’t tell me you chickened out.”

Dean gritted his teeth, trying to find it within him not to punch his brother. He felt like a frayed knot, ready to break at any second, and hanging on to every loose thread he could to keep it from happening.

“I don’t know. It wasn’t exactly _me_ making the decision, ok?”

Sam’s mouth tightened into a solid line, and Dean could tell he was trying to decide between bitching him out and being supportive.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Running his hand through his hair, Dean glanced around the demolished bathroom as though he was looking for literal writing on the wall to help him explain this shit to Sam.

Just then, Gabriel wandered in from wherever he’d been hiding. Dean hadn’t actually seen him all morning, but the presence of Cas’ cat seemed to give him the impulse he needed to at least try and convince his brother he wasn’t bat shit insane.

Heaving a sigh, he pushed past Sam, knowing he was going to need the letters from Cas to help prove his story. As expected, Sam followed, his face a mask of confusion.

They reached the kitchen and Dean nodded his head to the table. “Take a seat. I’m gonna grab a beer. You’re probably gonna want one for this too, man. And I need you to keep an open mind, cuz I swear to God, you’re not gonna believe a word I’m about to say.”

“Okay,” Sam said, drawing out the word on the **o** and narrowing his eyes at Dean, like he was already questioning Dean’s sanity.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Wait here.”

He kept the shoebox filled with Cas’ letters from Cas tucked away on a shelf in his closet. It only took a minute to grab the box and carry it back to the kitchen. As he stood beside the table, his brother watching him expectantly, Dean suddenly felt a wave of doubt wash over him.

What if he handed the box to Sam and Sam opened them up only to reveal sheet after sheet of blank paper? What if there really was a logical explanation to this whole thing and it was a prank this whole time? What if Sam didn’t believe him and thought Dean was tricking _him_? What if Cas was real and Dean had somehow completely screwed up one of the best things in his life without actually _doing_ anything? What if he couldn’t fix it?

He held back the last letter, but gave Sam everything else.

One thing you learned early on running a business was how to be organized. All the letters had been put in order and paper clipped from oldest to newest. Sam started at the back, silently reading over the first few exchanges. Dean could tell the minute Sam caught on to the minor detail of the time hitch.

Dean wasn’t sure exactly how to describe the noise Sam made other than something like one of the Canadian geese that populated the lake during the summer. Tearing his eyes from the page, Sam looked at him, frown firmly in place. “Is this some kind of joke?” he asked.

Waving his hand in a _continue_ gesture, Dean didn’t respond verbally. He wasn’t really sure he could. Nor, apparently, could he sit still. He got up and wandered through the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door to stare at the contents inside, wiping down the sink, pouring himself a glass of water despite the beer still condensing on the table - anything but sitting and watching while his brother read and judged one of the most important things in his life.

Finishing the last letter, Sam flipped it over as though looking for more. For the first time since figuring out this situation wasn’t exactly normal, the brothers made eye contact. “So what happened?” Sam asked.

Still not saying anything, Dean reached into his back pocket and handed Sam the last note. He didn’t need to look at it again. Cas’ words, in Cas’ handwriting, were burned into his brain.

 

 

“So, let me get this straight,” Sam said, holding up a hand and closing his eyes as though ordering his thoughts. “You agreed to go on a date with this guy, Cas, two years from last night,” he started.

“Yep.”

“And for some reason, the you two years from now didn’t show?”

“Pretty much. At least as far as I can tell.”

“I guess there’s no point in asking why.”

“Not really, no. Can’t really say I can understand how future me could screw up this epically. Well. I can see future me doing something monumentally stupid, but I can’t understand why I would do this to Cas.”

Sam’s face softened. “You know, two years is a -”

“Don’t you friggin’ give me the ‘two years is a long time,’ speech,” Dean said, the words ripping out of his chest. “I get it. I know. I could have met someone else between now and then. I could have changed my mind. Yeah, trust me. I know that’s what Cas is probably thinking too. But, God, Sammy. I _know_ me. This? This is something I’ve never had before. Hell, it’s not something I knew I _could_ have. Even as messed up as it is. And trust me, I get that this is messed up. But, Sammy, the way I feel about him… Even if I _had_ changed my mind, I can’t see myself just leaving him hanging like that. That’s a straight up dick move.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

Dean laughed, the sound coming out hollow. “It’s not like I can just pick up a cell phone and call the guy, Sam. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t come back. I’ve tried, trust me, but all my letters are still sitting out there in the box.” He dropped into the vacant chair across from his brother and looked up morosely. “I don’t know what to do, Sammy. I don’t even know what went wrong to begin to think of how to start to fix this.”

Sam looked back at him sadly, and Dean hated the pity he saw in his brother’s eyes. There was no solution in it, just a request that he accept the inevitable.

“Dean, even you can’t fix everything.”

* * *

 

Dean looked at the message he’d sent Cas. For the first time in a week, something had appeared beneath it, but it wasn’t the something he wanted to see.

 

 

Dean didn’t know if Cas was still at the mailbox or not, but he had to write back. It was the only thing he could do.

 

He put the letter back in the box. His heart flew into his throat when he saw the flag drop, signaling Cas was, in fact, on the other end. Maybe he could salvage this after all.

 

Shit. Dean couldn’t let himself let go. Cas might not know why he’d come back, but he had. Dean clung to that.

 

 

Cas didn’t reply right away, and Dean paced in front of the mailbox, his strides short and sharp. He only went about three or four steps in either direction before turning back. Twice, he opened the door to the mailbox to peer inside, even though he knew he wouldn’t find anything.

When the flag did go back up, Dean pounced on it like Gabriel on a stray piece of candy. The letter itself was longer, Cas’ handwriting surprisingly steady. Dean already had a sinking feeling he wasn’t going to like what it had to say.

****

** **

Dean read the words three times before they managed to penetrate. Cas was giving up. He wasn’t going to come back, and Dean had no way to chase after him. He felt as though a yawning hole was opening inside him.

Dropping his hands to his side, the letter crumpled in his fist before he realized what he was doing. Quickly, he smoothed it out against the side of the mailbox.

On a fresh sheet, unsullied by Cas’ words of goodbye, signed with the name he’d only ever accepted from Dean, Dean tried one last time.

 

 

Dean stood at the mailbox, praying to whoever might be listening, but Cas didn’t answer.

 ****

Life went on. Castiel went from home, to work, back home again. It wasn’t that he fell into a depression. Relationships ended all the time, and Castiel still had friends around him that mattered.

Occasionally, Balthazar convinced him to go out for drinks after work, and Michael met up with him for lunch - always bringing sandwiches from Heaven of course, but it wasn’t until Castiel forced himself to stop going to the mailbox that he realized exactly how much of his life had come to involve and revolve around Dean. He found himself at a loss to account for how he’d spent his time _before_ Dean. It wasn’t as though his life had ever really been all that interesting, and even _with_ Dean, that hadn’t really changed at its core. After all, for all intents and purposes, they had never actually dated. They hadn’t gone to exciting places, or had a favorite restaurant. They hadn’t even had a regular movie night.

What Castiel realized he missed most was the conversation, the constant back and forth. Someone who would always be the first he wanted to share news with, or just to swap pointless banter with. Though he’d never heard Dean’s voice - at least while knowing who he was - Castiel’s apartment seemed so much more silent now that the letters were over.

Castiel made an extra effort to stop by the rooms of all the children in his care at the end of his shifts. He knew many of them also craved that connection with someone else, even if it was with their doctor.

Anna had been released earlier that month for at least a brief period. Castiel’s heart broke knowing she would be back. As he thought about the young girl, he recalled the conversation they’d once had about Jane Austen. Perhaps Anna was right. Waiting just wasn’t practical. He should never have expected Dean to hold on for so long. He’d been selfish. In “Persuasion,” Anne had argued that the trait of the one who loved the longest could be determined by gender. Castiel didn’t agree, but he did think he now understood the discernible difference between loving longest with your love in front of you, and loving longest when all hope was lost.

He walked back to his apartment one night after his shift, enjoying the breeze on his face. The weather was rapidly warming towards summer every day, and the gust of air was refreshing. His mind wandered back to the truly terrible joke young Jesse Turner had told him about kangaroos and rainy days. He was still chuckling at the image of the small boy busting a gut as he gasped out the answer, when his phone rang.

Stepping up against the wall of the nearby building to avoid being in the middle of the foot traffic on the sidewalk, Castiel reached into the pocket of his computer bag to dig out the phone and silence the ringing. Once in hand, he swiped his thumb across the face of the screen to activate it and held it to his ear.

“Hello?” he asked, squinting in the dimness of the oncoming evening.

“Hello, darling,” a familiar voice, easily recognizable with its British accent, filtered through Castiel’s speakers.

“Crowley, what do you want?”

“Is that anyway to talk to an old lover?” the voice on the other end of the line said, tone slightly mocking and not the least bit offended.

Castiel heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. He still didn’t know why Crowley had called.

After a slight pause, Crowley seemed to realize he wasn’t going to say anything else. “Right, well, it turns out I’m back in town for the weekend, and I thought perhaps we could grab a bite to eat again. Considering the appalling disaster that was my last attempt at impressing you, I decided it might be better if you chose the establishment this time.”

Castiel pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment to glance at the screen to confirm he was talking to his ex. It was highly unusual for Crowley to give up control in anything unless he was getting something out of it in return. Allowing Castiel to pick the restaurant was a fairly significant gesture on his part.

“Alright. I’ve just gotten off work and need to change and shower first, what time did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I’d say an hour and a half would be sufficient,” Crowley said.

“Fine. Why don’t you meet me at The Roadhouse? Seven-thirty?” Castiel asked, glancing down at his watch to confirm that would give him enough time to shower, change and walk back to the bar. “Do you need directions?”

“Darling, that’s what the lovely invention of Google is for. I’m sure I can find my way.”

Rolling his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, Castiel bit back a sigh. “Then I’ll see you there in a bit.” Hanging up, Castiel slid his phone back into bag and hurried home, unsure if he was glad to be going back out again or not.

* * *

Castiel made it to The Roadhouse by seven fifteen, opting to try and beat Crowley there. He wasn’t sure why he felt it was important, but he’d come to think of the bar as one of his safe havens. Castiel huffed a laugh under his breath as he realized he was trying to assert his territory.

As amused at his childish behavior as he was, Castiel was still somewhat dismayed when he stepped inside the cool, dim interior, only to discover Crowley already occupying a booth along the far wall. His shoulders dropped slightly and he closed his eyes briefly, reminding himself he and Crowley were still friends.

Crossing the room to join him at the booth, Castiel observed a young blonde waitress he’d seen regularly - he thought her name might be Jo - stop to check on Crowley. He was in the middle of waving her off when he glanced over and spotted Castiel. The other man’s face lit up in a way that caught him off-guard.

Jo stepped back slightly to let him sit down, flashing him a smile of recognition, her pad at the ready, but staying several steps out of the way while the two men greeted each other.

“Castiel! You made it. Early too. My, I must say, I’m impressed. I wasn’t aware I rated so high on your list of priorities,” Crowley said, standing up and hugging him in the awkward way of someone who wasn’t overly affectionate anyway and wasn’t quite sure what was allowed.

Castiel pulled back and shot him a small, friendly half smile in return. “Don’t flatter yourself. The Roadhouse makes the best burgers in Chicago.”

Crowley chuckled appreciatively, looking down at the menu Jo had already put on the table. “Why am I not surprised?” he asked, shaking his head.

Jo took that opportunity to step forward. “Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?” she asked. “Water? Beer?” She turned to Castiel. “You prefer the IPA on tap, right?”

Genuinely surprised she remembered his drink order, Castiel nodded and took a quick glance down to make sure he’d recalled her name correctly. Her nametag told him he had. “Yes, thank you, Jo. I’ll have that please.”

Crowley was watching Castiel, his eyes narrowed slightly as though he was trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle piece, when Jo turned towards him, her pen poised ready over her pad. He startled a bit, shaking his head before looking up at her and smiling a thin smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll have the same, thanks, love.”

Jo nodded and made a note, though Castiel suspected she hardly needed it. “I’m guessing you guys will need a few minutes before you’re ready to order?” she said, her voice rising at the end to indicate a question.

Castiel looked over to Crowley, who just looked back with an eyebrow cocked. He answered Jo without looking at her. “My friend here tells me you have the best burgers in town. I’ll have your most sinful.” He tilted his head at Castiel as though offering a challenge before turning to Jo and handing her the menu.

Rolling his eyes Castiel handed her his menu as well before turning directly towards her. “I’ll have the same, but I don’t require the same amount of sin. A regular burger will be fine, thank you.”

Jo smirked as she took both menus, trying and failing to hide her amusement. “Okay then. One sinful burger and one regular burger coming up. I’ll have your drinks out in just a few minutes. Anything else?”

Declining, both men watched her go for a moment before Castiel turned back to look at Crowley. “What brings you back to town this time?” he asked, deciding to get right to the point.

Crowley chuckled and reached for his napkin. “Do I have to have a reason?” he asked as he unrolled the silverware, placing it on the table before shaking out the napkin and tucking it into his collar, a habit Castiel had often found old fashioned.

Instead of answering, Castiel opted to lean back and observe him.

After about thirty seconds of scrutiny, Crowley threw up his hands. “Ok, alright, fine. The deal I was working on the last time I was out here turned out to be a pretty good thing for my company. Created a sort of coup d’état if you will. Anyway, I lied on the phone before. I’m not just out here for the weekend. I’ve been placed in charge of our publishing office here in Chicago.”

“That’s certainly impressive. Congratulations, Crowley,” Castiel said, sincere in his sentiment, but unsure how he felt about the news that his ex would apparently now be a permanent fixture in Chicago again. He’d moved fairly soon after they’d broken up and it had certainly made maintaining a friendship easier when they weren’t in the same city.

“Yes, well, don’t jump up and down in your enthusiasm,” Crowley retorted dryly, clearly sensing the other man’s hesitation.

Huffing a laugh, Castiel felt the tension in his shoulders flee. “You’re right. I apologize. I really am very happy for you. It will be nice to have a chance to see you more often.” He realized he meant it.

After that, the evening progressed more smoothly and the two fell into an easy and familiar banter. While Castiel felt a momentary pang that he never had and never would feel the same spark with Crowley that he’d had in mere letters with Dean, their back and forth was comfortable. For a moment, Castiel entertained the thought that maybe that was enough. Perhaps true love only happened with magic. Every fairy tale he knew said that magic had a time limit. Midnight had already struck on his story. It could be enough.


	13. Chapter 13

Falling back into a routine with Crowley was easier than Castiel expected. It wasn’t a whirlwind romance, and the things that had bothered Castiel when they’d dated before, still bothered him now, but the whole thing took very little effort. They both knew each other’s quirks and idiosyncrasies. Castiel just supposed that maybe that’s what a relationship was. Love wasn’t a necessary ingredient. Maybe love didn’t really exist at all. Perhaps what he’d felt with Dean was just the dream borne of loneliness.  

Michael had pursed his lips when Castiel told him Crowley was back in town, and the two were seeing each other again, but to his relief, his brother refrained from making a comment. He could tell it took effort. Castiel had briefly told him that whatever the thing was with Dean had ended. Although Michael had initially pressed for details, eventually, Castiel’s stubbornness had won out and he’d dropped the subject.

Now, in late August, Castiel found himself wiping a stray bead of sweat from his brow as he set down yet another box on the floor of his rapidly filling apartment. He’d already cleaned out quite a few of his own belongings and put them into storage, but that didn’t stop the additional influx of furniture, books and general things from making the space around him feel tight and overcrowded.

“Oh c’mon, darling, don’t tell me you’re tired already?” Crowley stood leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, legs crossed at the ankle as he sipped a glass of water. Castiel shot him an irritated glare and bit back a retort. Crowley had already taken twice as many breaks and brought up half as much stuff. He found himself grateful that he was scheduled to work a double shift the next day and the actual unpacking process would be entirely on Crowley.

Sensing Castiel’s irritation, despite his silence, Crowley smirked. “Don’t pout. It’s unbecoming. Besides, you yourself diagnosed my bad back. You know I shouldn’t be lifting too many heavy objects.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at his boyfriend. “I diagnosed your back three years ago Crowley. And I gave you a list of exercises to work on. I should think it would have mended itself by now.”

Winking, Crowley turned and sat the glass down on the counter in the kitchen before coming back out and placing a light, placating kiss on Castiel’s cheek. “Yes, well, we wouldn’t want me reinjuring it, would we?”

Shaking his head, Castiel went back down the elevator to where the moving truck waited out front and grabbed another box.

* * *

Living with Crowley wasn’t really that much different than just having a roommate. They shared a bed when they slept, but there still lacked any kind of spark between them. As it stood, their schedules rarely matched up anyway. Castiel didn’t complain and often volunteered for the less desirable shifts at the hospital while Crowley traveled, working on making the latest greatest deal in the publishing industry.

Every now and then though, they found themselves sharing the same space. On one such night, Castiel sat on the couch flipping through the channels on the television aimlessly. As he was clicking, he saw the flash of a familiar character on the screen for a split second before the channel changed with his rhythmic monotony. Pausing, he backed up until he found the channel again. The scene, while filmed in color, was stark in its nearly black and white setting. This was one of the films Dean had once insisted he had to watch. He’d spent a weekend, almost a year ago now, going through the entire series while recording his thoughts and reactions for Dean.

This particular scene was near the end of the second movie. Well, second in the order that Dean had told him was the order they should be watched, at least. Several of the main characters had been captured by the enemy and were now facing separation. The female - Leia, Castiel recalled belatedly - struggled against her captor’s hold while Han Solo prepared to be dipped into carbonite.

“I love you,” she called, desperate. Castiel had never decided if she was desperate for a way to save Han, or just desperate that he knew she loved him. Maybe it didn’t matter.

“I know,” Han replied. Castiel smiled tightly at the memories the dialogue invoked. Dean had waxed long about Han Solo’s character and this particularly iconic line. He realized a thin sheen of moisture had filled his eyes, blurring the image in front of him. Blinking, he worked to clear his vision just as the mechanism to lower Han into the carbonite activated and Leia turned her face away.

A feeling of loneliness descended on Castiel, despite the fact that Crowley was just one room over. He yearned for a warm body to curl into during the scene - someone to offer comfort that the lovers would find their way back to each other again. While it might be the end of this particular chapter, they would eventually be reunited.

“Can you please turn that down?” Crowley called from their shared office in the next room, his voice laced with irritation at the distraction from his work.

With a sigh, Castiel turned off the television entirely and got up to plod his way into the bedroom, his feet dragging in an uneven shuffling stomp that, if he wasn’t in his thirties, he might describe as pouty.

One particularly hard thud of his heel against the floor brought him up short when the floorboard itself came loose under his weight.

“Shit!” he swore, hopping lightly away from the offending piece of wood. This building was still relatively new. Construction had only finished a few months before he’d moved in. There was no reason for a floorboard to be loose and it only heightened his irritation. As he moved to push the board back into place with his foot, something caught his eye in the space beneath.

Dropping to the ground, Castiel pried it further back and away instead. His breath caught and his eyes watered for a second time in less than ten minutes as he recognized the dusty cover of his father’s book resting neatly beneath his floor. Hands shaking, he reached in to pull it out, cradling it gently in his hands. The dog eared edges were friendly in their familiarity and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was his copy that he’d left years ago, forgotten on a train station bench. He opened the cover to look for the familiar scrawl of his father’s handwriting on the inside and startled when a piece of paper dropped out.

Heart pounding, Castiel picked it up and opened it, stifling a sob as he read the words on the page.

 

Unable to hold it back any longer, Cas sat down firmly on the ground, back to the edge of his bed, and the book clutched tightly to his chest. As he cried, he mourned the loss of what had never really been, and yet had been the truest time of his life.

 ****

Dean spent the two weeks following Cas’ letter in a funk. He took some vacation time from the job site. Lord knew he had enough saved up. His old man didn’t believe in taking time off if you were perfectly healthy, and Dean didn’t dare argue. Not like he’d ever had anywhere to go or anyone to see as it was. Dean couldn’t remember the last unscheduled day away he’d had.

He used the time to throw himself into renovations on his house. No matter what he did though, everything thing was superficial - a paint job here, new appliance there - it didn’t fix the overarching flaws of the structure. He wasn’t sure why he was putting in so much effort. He knew he wasn’t going to be there that much longer, even if he had no idea what the hell he was going to do next, much less where he’d be.

Deep down, Dean recognized he was getting the place ready for Cas. Admitting that though meant acknowledging the hole Cas had left behind when he’d stopped writing. Dean wasn’t willing to do that.

That’s where Sam found him, on Memorial Day, covered in plaster and grout as he tore apart the dated avocado tiling that lined the stall of the master bathtub.

“Dude, what are you doing?”   
“What the hell does it look like I’m doing, Sam? I’m fixing the damn tub.”   
“No, man. I mean, what the hell are you doing here, fixing this place instead of at work? I mean, it’s not like I don’t think you can take a vacation. But, why now?”

Dean shoved the scrapper he was using forcefully under another tile, taking satisfaction in the clatter it made as it crashed and shattered in the base of the tub. He didn’t turn to face his brother when he responded. “Just felt like taking some time off, dude, that’s all. Needed some time to think.”

“Anything in particular?” Sam ventured.

Dean huffed, irritated, but didn’t actually respond beyond scrapping another tile off the wall.

“Is this about that Cas guy?” Sam asked. Dean turned finally and saw his brother filling the doorway, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched up to his ears. His head was tilted to the side as he watched Dean, concern in his eyes.

“I’m not about to go Oprah on you if that’s what you’re hoping,” Dean said.

“No, man… that’s not…” Sam sighed. “Look, I could tell you were really into the guy. I just... I don’t know. Maybe he was right. I mean, how do you really wait two years for someone?”

“I waited four for you to come home,” Dean said bluntly.

Sam visibly wilted at the comment, head and shoulders both dropping down sharply to the ground. “Guess I deserved that.”

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing himself to be patient. “No, man, you didn’t. Look. I’m sorry. You had every right to go to school. I shouldn’t take my shit out on you.”

“No, no, I mean... I get it. Yeah, I get that going to school was right for me, but that doesn’t mean I had to cut you out of my life too. That wasn’t cool, and, well, I’m sorry. But I’m here now. I swear.”

Dean gave his brother a small smile, little more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was all he could manage, but it seemed enough to make Sam relax a bit.

“So, I know this might be a bad time and all…”

Dean felt his back stiffen. “I sense a ‘but’ coming, Sammy. Just spit it out.”   
Sam took a deep breath and spoke quickly, as though he was verbally ripping off a Band-Aid. “I was wondering if you’d thought any more about Restoration Reconstruction.”

Dean clenched his jaw, feeling the muscle in his cheek twitch slightly. “Yeah, bad timing, Sammy.”

“Hey, look, man. I’m sorry. I really am. I know this thing with Cas right now sucks. I get that. But I need to know what you plan to do by the end of the week. I mean, Dean, it’s already the twenty-seventh. I don’t wanna rush you, and I’m not trying to push you into something you don’t wanna do, but maybe…”

“What, Sam?” Dean asked, looking around the room and holding his hands out to the side in a questioning gesture.

Shrugging tentatively, as though Dean were a bomb he didn’t want to set off, Sam continued. “Maybe it would be good for you, you know? Give you something new and challenging to focus on.”

“Look, Sam…”

Sam cut him off, seeming to realize if he pressed, he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. “Don’t answer today. You still have a week. But I need to you promise me you’re really gonna start thinking about it.”   
Dean kept his face blank as he looked at his brother. “Yeah, man. Sure. Whatever. I’ll think about it.”

* * *

Dean stomped back into the office about midday. The progress on the site was going well. They should have the whole thing finished by the end of August at the rate they were going. He mulled over the other projects they had in the works as he reached for the coffee pot. There was one other active site in about halfway through completion and they had a bid in on another piece of property across town in a new up and coming area of development.

“You are one hell of an idjit.” Bobby’s voice said, cutting through Dean’s reverie.

“Huh?” Dean frowned at the older man, not realizing he’d followed him into the trailer.

“What the hell are you putting your brother off for?”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, trying to play dumb. He knew it wouldn’t work, but he could always hope.

“You know damn well what I mean, boy. Your brother offers to go in fifty/fifty with you on a business I know you’ve been wanting to do since you were knee high to a grasshopper, and you don’t jump on the damn chance? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What am I supposed to do, Bobby? It’s not like it’s just that simple. I already own a business. At least, I own half of one. What was I gonna do, just bail on you and Dad?”

“Bullshit,” Bobby spat. “Fine, I could see you havin’ trouble with that when John was still around. Never did have a lick of sense about you when it came to doin’ what he wanted.” His surrogate uncle shook his head. “But don’t you go blamin’ some fool-headed sense of obligation to me for not making a decision. Hell. I’ll make it easy for you.”

Dean watched, nonplussed as Bobby crossed the room to his desk and opened a drawer.

Pulling out a checkbook, Bobby looked back up at him and stared him down as though he were ten years old again and had tried to lie his way out of the broken window and the baseball in the living room.

He grabbed a pen without breaking Dean’s eye contact. “Given that Colt Construction was just reassessed to represent our new shares, I happen to know exactly what your half is worth. Now I can’t fire you. You are half owner. But I sure as hell can offer to buy you out. I’m good for it. Ain’t spent a dime more than I’ve had to since Karen died, and we ain’t done too shabby here.”

Bobby’s face softened as he sensed the tension rolling off Dean. “Offer’s on the table, boy. No more excuses. You deserve this, Dean. You’re a better man than your father ever was. And a damn better architect. What do you want to do?”

Swallowing, Dean eyed the pen in Bobby’s hand. It was now or never. Time to make a decision.

* * *

Pressing the edge of the tape gun against the box, Dean pulled, flattening the adhesive strip with his hand as it sealed shut the lid. Sitting back on his heels, he smoothed his hand over the line again to remove the creases. All around him were similar boxes. It amazed him how much more he was taking with him now than when he’d moved in only seven months ago. He supposed it still wasn’t as much as would fill most people’s houses. Everything except the few pieces of furniture would still fit in the Impala in one trip, but now he would need to use the front and back seats as well as the trunk. Even the furniture fit into the back of a pickup truck Sam had borrowed from Colt Construction for the purpose. It was more than he’d ever owned and, for a while, he’d actually thought he felt like he was putting down roots. Or at least reconnecting to those he’d lost long ago.

Like so many things in his life, what he expected wasn’t meant to be. At least he’d had some notion that what he was building here wasn’t going to last long. Even if it hadn’t ended the same way he’d thought it might.

Packing took the rest of the morning. Before he knew it, Dean had put the last box in his car. There was just one final thing he had to do.

Walking over to the blue mailbox, Dean opened the door and pulled out his most recent letter to Cas. It had sat there, unread, for almost three months. Dean knew Cas, _his_ Cas, wouldn’t be coming back for it. And now it was time to go. To make a space so someone else, someone who was not _his_ Cas, but one day would be, could find happiness and solace in the place Dean had come to think of as home.

So Dean took the letter out, and walked one more time back into the lake house. He slipped the letter into the top of the shoebox, filled with the conversations exchanged between the two men. He’d spent the better part of the summer reading and re-reading the letters, looking for some clue that would help him understand why Cas wasn’t willing to give him another chance. His last letter in particular had been read countless times, small tears worn into the creases where it had been folded and unfolded. He had the words, painful as they were, memorized. If Dean was going to have to accept it was over, he was going to have to leave the letters and the memories behind.

With a grunt and a cloud of dust, Dean pulled down the ladder that led to a small attic space. He pushed the box up through the hole and shoved it to the far corner, likely to become prey to moths and other insects.

Dean walked back out to the Impala, wiping a hand down his face before shoving it into his pocket to dig out his keys.

As he approached the car, he noticed Gabriel, sitting on the roof, looking at him like a disappointed parent. The cat’s tail flicked back and forth behind him in quick, agitated movements.

“Now how the hell did you get out?” Dean asked the cat, bending into the car to check the lock on the fancy ass carrier he’d bought to transport him. Even if Dean had never asked the damn thing to stay, it hadn’t felt right, somehow, just leaving him behind.

Standing back up, he reached for the furball. Faster than a blink, Gabriel was out of reach, bounding off the trunk and trotting quickly into the underbrush on the other side of the road.

“Gabriel!” Dean called, jogging over to try and find the cat in the overgrowth of green. The effort was fruitless, and Dean didn’t really try too hard. Something about the feline made Dean think he was his own master. He’d survived before Dean, and he would survive until he managed to find his way to Cas.

* * *

Crowley wasn’t a hard guy to find. A quick Google search showed he was an ample user of social media to promote himself and whatever client it was he happened to be working with at the time. Once Dean hit the city, he drove directly to Crowley’s office.

Of course, it was up on the freaking fourteenth floor, and he’d come face to face with a hellhound of a secretary before he could even get the man out of his office.

“What the hell do you want, Winchester?” Crowley said, coming towards him while he buttoned his suit jacket. Dean noted there was no hesitation in remembering his name this time.

Dean dropped his head a bit and held his hands up to show he wasn’t there to start anything. “I’m not here to cause trouble, I just wanted to give you this,” he said, holding out a rental agreement for the lake house.

“Am I supposed to be a mind reader now?” Crowley asked sarcastically, eyeing the paper in Dean’s hand without taking it.  He held his head back, with his chin up, as though appraising a subject beneath him.

“It’s a lease agreement to a house out on Maple Lake,” Dean said, unfolding it and holding it up so Crowley could read the header on the document. “It’s through a third party company, not connected with my name. I just happen to know Castiel is interested in living in a lake house. Since I’m moving, I thought I would pass along the opportunity.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose. Listen, Winchester, I’m a businessman, and a damn good one. Deals are my thing. There’s always a catch.”

Dean shook his head. “Seriously. No catch. I just want Castiel to be happy.”

Crowley snatched the agreement from Dean’s hand and eyed it speculatively. Job done, Dean backed off towards the elevators.

He pressed the button while Crowley was still reading. Fortunately, the car hadn’t left the floor and the door opened quickly. Just before he stepped inside, he turned to Crowley one last time. “If Cas is interested, the number for the rental company is on the bottom. They’ll take care of everything,” he said.


	14. Chapter 14

**September, 2014**

“So get this,” Sam said, without preamble as he walked into the apartment he and Dean had shared for the last year.  

Dean looked up from the large drafting table where he’d been idly working while letting his mind drift. The project was an old one, something he picked up in between paid gigs or when he just needed to clear his head. “What?” he asked when it became evident Sam wasn’t going to continue unprompted.

Clearly wanting to draw out whatever his news was, Sam slid his backpack from its position slung over his right shoulder onto one of the chairs lining the breakfast bar by their kitchen. He ran a hand through his shoulder length hair, Dean’s fingers twitching for the scissors he knew he had handy in his work stand just an arm’s length away. Finally turning to face his brother, Sam quirked his eyebrows upward, a smile inching across his face. “I think I finally found us the perfect place.”

Dean sat up a little straighter. “Yeah?” he asked, a little skeptical. They’d been scoping out new office spaces for the past six months with no luck, but if the satisfied expression Sam was wearing now was any indication, it might have been worth the wait. “Where is it?”

“Kenwood.”

Frowning, Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Pretty good location - what’s the catch?”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, widening his eyes in an expression of false innocence.

“I mean, there’s no way in hell we could afford that. We’ve looked in that area before. What changed? What’s wrong with this place?”

“Well,” Sam said. “It is a bit of a fixer upper.”

Dean just raised an eyebrow, waiting for Sam to continue.

“I mean, but that’s really kinda perfect, ya know? We could totally gut the place, really put our own thumbprint on it. What better advertising could we have for a relatively new company?”

He had a point. Dean hadn’t even seen the place and he was already starting to envision what they might be able to do if they could start with a space completely from scratch. Kenwood had some fantastic old architecture to begin with.

“Does it have good bones?” Dean asked. That was important. That was his side of this business. What he’d loved the most since officially opening Resurrection Restorations with Sam was finding the places with the good foundations, and bringing them back to life. He loved digging under the surface to find the beauty so often hidden beneath generations of sloppy remodeling, and giving it new life. But if a building had a crappy foundation, there was only so much he could do.

Sam shot him a bitch face. “Do you really think I’d have even bothered mentioning it if the basic structure sucked?”

And okay, fair enough. Sam knew better than to give him something lousy to work with. This project would be an interesting challenge too.

Since opening their doors eight months ago, Sam and Dean had generally split the clients that had come their way - Dean taking on the customers who wanted a more classic, traditional feel to their renovations and Sam working with the ones who wanted something more modern and sleek. Whatever they came up with for their office would have to showcase a seamless blend of both their styles.

“Well, if nothing else, it’ll be nice to get out of the cramped box downstairs,” he acknowledged.

“It hasn’t been that bad,” Sam countered, but Dean knew it was just an attempt to downplay. They’d been open less than a year and they’d already outgrown the temporary space below the apartment they were now occupying. One thing Dean couldn’t complain about was the commute.

When he’d agreed to let Bobby buy him out of Colt Construction, Dean had been terrified. There had been no way to know how successful they would be, almost right off the bat.

It didn’t hurt that the housing market had finally started improving, but Dean had to admit that Sam was damn good at the whole PR and business end of things. They’d even managed to hire on a small staff, including an enthusiastic young woman named Charlie who doubled as an office assistant and webmaster. Dean didn’t want to ask what she’d done to somehow get their name at the top of every search return when it came to renovation work in the greater Chicago area.

“So,” Dean said. “You gonna just yap about it all day, or you gonna take me to see this awesome place?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I’ve got an appointment scheduled with the realtor tomorrow.”

“You come in this excited about the place and you’re going to make me wait until tomorrow to see it? Something more important going on I should know about, Sammy?”

Sam made a small noise of irritation before responding. “I’m taking Jess out tonight,” he said.

Dean’s look of disbelief melted into a smirk. Sam had met Jess at the farmer’s market or some shit about a month back, and the two seemed to have hit it off well. His brother hadn’t shut up about the girl for weeks, though Dean had yet to meet her. If she kept his brother looking that happy though, she was ok in his book. That didn’t mean he was above teasing Sam about it.

“Well, that makes sense. You know what they say about all work and no play.”

“You should know,” Sam snarked back, immediately wincing as the words left his mouth.

The grin on Dean’s face turned false and pained as though someone had tacked the smile to his face.

“Look, Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam said, hand reaching out a bit towards his brother.

Dean waved him off. “Nah, man. Don’t worry about it. You’re right, I’ve got no room to talk.” For all his reassurance though, he didn’t feel a smidgen of his feigned nonchalance. Instead, it felt like a hand had reached in his chest and gripped his heart, seeking his damaged soul. It didn’t matter how much time had passed.

Sam watched him carefully, obviously knowing Dean was full of bullshit and wanting desperately to comment on it.

“Go ahead and say it, Sammy,” Dean said, dropping the semblance of carelessness.

“Look, man. I know that… thing… you had with Cas was, well, important. But I don’t know. Don’t you think you should go out and try and find someone… real?”

Dean scowled, unable to hide the flash of irritation that ran through him. “Cas _was_ real, Sam; probably the most real thing in my life.”

Sam’s face tightened, as though he’d expected Dean’s response, but had hoped for something different. Dean sighed and ran a hand down his face.

“Look, I can’t just shut this crap off,” he said, trying to pacify his brother. “I know you want me to ‘get back out there’ or whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing to move on. But it just doesn’t work like that, all right? Yeah. So maybe I should have known the thing with Cas was doomed from the start. Doesn’t make it hurt any damn less. I still don’t know what kinda voodoo shit was going on to tie us together to begin with, but it did. So, much as I appreciate your intentions, just back the hell off, ok?”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck and looked down. “Yeah, Dean. I hear you. Look, I’m sorry. I just wanna see you happy, y’know? You deserve that.”

Snorting, Dean cocked an eyebrow at his brother. “Yeah, ok. Thanks for that. Chick flick moment officially over. Go take your girlfriend out. If you’re late, she might realize she’s too good for your ass and leave you.”

Sam flipped him off as he turned down the hallway and towards the shower to get ready for his date.

* * *

**February, 2015**

“Holy hell, what did we pack in these boxes?” Dean grunted as he and Sam moved the last load into their newly renovated office space. The air still held the distinct aroma of fresh paint and varnish. They’d opted for wood floors rather than the typical tightly woven office carpets, despite the greater difficulty in maintaining them because Dean wanted clients to get a sense of the same type of work and charm the Winchesters would put into their own homes.

Dropping the last load into what would become Dean’s personal design space, Sam made a face at him. “Don’t look at me, this box is your shit.”

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother before smiling broadly and clapping him on the shoulder. “We did it man. Still can’t believe you talked me into it, but we actually did it.” He looked around proudly at the open spaces before him. Rather than enclosing the area into separate rooms, Sam and Dean had chosen to create a more open floor plan. There was a clear division of space, using a mix of floating dry wall and glass panes, but there were very few doors anywhere in the structure except in the private rooms where they would meet individual clients. The exterior walls had been stripped down to expose the brickwork beneath.

Although the walls were currently bare, Dean had been working hard to draw up sample plans and finished conceptual designs to showcase what they were capable of. Each had been framed and were just waiting for their respective places. The light fixtures had all been set to accentuate the pieces and draw client’s attention. Their desks and worktables had been delivered, as had their main conference table. Already, Dean could envision the final product.

“I’m proud of us,” he said, smiling at Sammy.

They worked together for a little longer, trying to get a bit of a head start on unpacking some of the boxes before Sam sat back on his heels and wiped a wide forearm against his brow. “I think I’m about done for the day. You ready to head out?”

Dean looked at his watch. It was still relatively early - only about ten in the morning - but they’d gotten an early start and it _was_ a Saturday. Not like they couldn’t pick back up again on Monday when all the normal people were working. Hell, he was excited enough to come back in tomorrow and work on his own, even If Sammy wanted the day off. “Yeah, sure man. Let’s head out.”

Both men pulled on their coats before heading out of the office and down the stairs to the front entrance. Dean pushed through the glass doors first and couldn’t help but stagger back at the unexpected blast of warm air that hit him. It was at least fifty degrees outside. It wasn’t exactly middle-of-the-summer hot, but it sure as hell wasn’t frickin’ February.

“Holy shit, what’s up with the weather?” Dean asked, almost regretting his leather jacket.

Sam looked around and shrugged. “Global warming?” he said in explanation, but his voice lilting at the end as though to make it a question.

“Yeah, man, whatever,” Dean groused. “Still too damn hot.”

He glanced over at Sam who was looking down at his watch as they walked down the sidewalk, a slight frown of concentration pinching his eyebrows. “So, you wanna head to lunch or something? We could hit up The Roadhouse. I worked up an appetite with all that heavy lifting.”

“Can’t. It’s Valentine’s Day. Taking Jess out.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day?” Dean asked, squinting ahead of him. For some reason, the information pinged something in the back of his brain, but he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.

“Uh, yeah. Been on the calendar all day. Red and pink shit showed up in the store a few weeks ago? Did you seriously not realize?”

“Not exactly on my radar lately, Sammy.”

Sam smirked at his brother. “If I remember, you used to refer to Valentine’s Day as Unattached Drifter Christmas. You know, maybe you could go out tonight in that leather jacket made of love and find someone to celebrate with.”

“We’ve been over this, Sam. Ain’t exactly my thing anymore.” Dean fought to hide a cringe from his brother. The thought of Cas still hurt, though he had moved on from thinking about him every few hours to only dwelling in his memories every few days.

Cas.

Dean’s arm shot out to grab Sam’s wrist. Sam stopped and looked back at him as though he’d lost his mind.

“It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Uh. Yeah? We just had this conversation. You feeling ok, Dean?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day, 2015,” Dean said, looking at Sam intensely.

“Dean, are you sure you’re alright?” Sam asked, starting to look concerned.

Dean felt his face split into a wide smile. “Yeah, man. I’m great. Just gotta check something first.”

Dean broke into a jog, determined to get to the Impala as quickly as he could.

“Dean! Where are you going?” Sam called after him, exasperation clear in his voice.

Dean just threw a hand over his shoulder, too focused on his task - and his chance - to respond.

* * *

Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever had the gas pressed down so far in his baby before. Hell, if he’d learned one thing in whatever it was he had with Cas, it was that time was important. So he tore down the deserted narrow road that lead out of the city to the lake house.

He knew Cas was long gone. The rental company he’d leased the property through had given him the heads up a month ago when the other man had moved out, asking him if he would like them to list the property again. He declined. That house was only for him and Cas.

When he reached the house, he pulled to a stop in a cloud of dust. He didn’t waste time looking around him as he jumped out of the car and ran up the dock to the front door. Fumbling for a moment, with the keys, he almost dropped them before managing to get the door open with a curse.

The house itself was empty and echoing. Dust had already started to settle again on the counters, but Dean didn’t notice. He had a mission.

Pulling down the ladder that lead to the small attic space, Dean reached into the back corner where he’d left the box full of Cas’ letters. He didn’t see it at first, another box or two, probably left by Cas himself, blocking his view.

When his hand grasped the bulging, cardboard sides, he felt a sweeping sensation of relief steal over him.

Hauling the box out of the crawl space, he ripped it open, resisting the urge to simply dump the letters on the floor. He knew the one he wanted was near the top.

Fingers wrapped around the piece of paper. It had long since been committed to memory, but it had been almost a year and a half since Dean had actually read it and he had to be _sure_. Unfolding it, Dean skimmed the words that had broken his heart until he found the passage that he needed.

 

 

There, in Cas’ familiar script, was the confirmation Dean was looking for. He knew when and where he could find Cas again. He glanced at his watch. It was eleven o’clock now. He could make it to Daley Plaza in thirty-five minutes if he didn’t hit traffic once he reached the city. Dean didn’t know exactly what time Cas and Michael would be there, but he prayed they would stay at least until he arrived. Maybe he could talk to Cas.

He knew it was a long shot. This Cas still didn’t know who he was. He was still several days away from writing to Dean for the first time. But Dean had the letters. Maybe he could prove to him that Dean was sincere. He’d waited for Cas for two years. He could wait for Cas to fall in love with him again.

Grabbing the box of letters in case Cas needed the evidence, Dean hurried back out to the Impala. Pulling on his seatbelt, Dean shifted the car into gear and headed back into the city without sparing a glance for the mailbox and the little raised flag.

* * *

There he was. A little more than the length of a football field away. Cas sat next to a man Dean had never seen before, but knew was his brother, Michael. Dean barely saw him. His whole focus was on the man with the hopelessly tousled hair and tan trench coat.

Dean stood across the street from the plaza, watching as Cas dug into a sandwich while he laughed and joked with his brother, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The sadness, almost emptiness in that smile pulled at Dean, encouraging him to move towards the man.

Without looking around him, Dean stepped forward.

 ****

**February, 2017**

 

Castiel looked around at the gutted space. The building had once served as an old warehouse, but the city was trying to reclassify it as residential. Unfortunately, at the moment, it was nowhere near close to habitable.

Regardless, Castiel felt a warm charm exuding from the exposed brick on the walls. The ceiling was a good twenty feet above him with large windows gracing one wall, letting in ample light. When converted, it would make an ideal loft space.

Castiel had always had a fondness for repurposed spaces, but he typically appreciated them _after_ the work had been done. He’d never felt the urge to have a hand in the process himself.

A small intrusive voice told him this was Dean’s influence, but Castiel tamped it down. He was back with Crowley again, even if what they had at this point was more of a platonic cooperative relationship than a romantic or physical one. It was comfortable and Dean was firmly ensconced in his past.

“Well, it’s not exactly paradise, is it?” Crowley’s dry voice echoed behind him, his dress shoes clacking against the cement floor.

“That’s part of the point,” Castiel said in exasperation. “Not everything has to be perfect. The flaws are what make it unique.”

“Yes, well, you couldn’t find something unique and livable I suppose?”

“Not on the budget we’re working with.”

“And I suppose taking a gutted building and completely refurbishing it will be the model of frugality?”

Castiel couldn’t help but huff a laugh. “I’ve found a firm willing to draw up some sketches.”

“Yeah, what makes them so great?” Crowley asked, one eyebrow arched, clearly doubting.

“Well, they’re still relatively new -”

“Meaning they’re inexperienced,” Crowley cut in.

Castiel took a deep controlling breath to try and reign in his temper. He knew Crowley wasn’t intentionally trying to be difficult, but his attitude was wearing nonetheless. “Meaning they’re cheap,” he concluded.

* * *

A few days later, Crowley met Castiel at the offices for Resurrection Restorations. They were greeted when they walked in by a cheerful redhead who introduced herself as Charlie.

“You must be Castiel,” she said, holding out her hand to shake his. She pursed her lips clearly suppressing a smile as she looked up at him.

“Is there something wrong?” Castiel asked, wondering if his hair was somehow in disarray again. He’d tried to tame it before leaving his early morning shift at the hospital, but that wasn’t always enough.

“Not at all!” Charlie assured him. “It’s just that...well, when I talk to new clients on the phone, I try and guess what they’ll look like before they come in.”

Castiel blinked. “I supposed I don’t quite fit what you were expecting then?”

Charlie’s mouth turned up at the side. “I thought you’d be shorter.”

Castiel chuckled and opened his mouth to respond when Crowley cleared his throat in mild irritation.

“When you two finish your little chat, I believe we’re supposed to be looking over some plans?”

Charlie’s eyes grew comically wide as she realized she was holding up their scheduled meeting. “Right! Yes. Sorry about that. I tend to talk a lot. We’re all set up for you, just follow me.” Turning efficiently on her heel, she ushered them back into a bright conference room with two glass walls and a wide sun-filled window. The far wall was a standard white surface in order to support the large screen Castiel presumed would be used to display potential mock ups to the whole group.

He and Crowley both took their seats at the table where glasses of cool water were already sitting waiting for them.

“If you guys hang here for just second, I’ll be right back with Sam,” Charlie said, throwing them both another smile before heading out to find her colleague.

Crowley settled into the chair and swiveled it towards Castiel. Reaching into the lapel of his suit jacket, he pulled out a card and slid it across the wood paneled table.

Castiel glanced down at it, frowning slightly. “What’s this for?” he asked.

“Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh.” Castiel had forgotten the holiday entirely. It hadn’t even registered when he’d made the appointment that it was February fourteenth. He reached awkwardly towards the card, knowing he had nothing to reciprocate in return even waiting at home.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “It’s not a bloody bomb, Castiel. Just a card. Not like we’re going out to celebrate or anything. Just consider it a small token on my part. You don’t even need to read it now.”

Castiel nodded. “Then, thank you.”

He opted to take Crowley up on his suggestion and tucked the card into the pocket of his woolen overcoat.  

They waited for a few more moments in awkward silence. Castiel reached forward to take a sip of water as Crowley turned to him, eyebrows twitching upward, a backhanded British compliment about the service no doubt on his lips when the door opened again to reveal a giant of a man with well groomed, shoulder length hair. No wonder Charlie expected him to be short. Everyone would be short in comparison to this man.

Castiel and Crowley both stood to shake hands with the architect.

“It’s good to meet you, Sam,” Castiel said. “I’ve heard some really great things about the work your group has done the past few years. I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve drawn up for us.”

Overall, the meeting went smoothly. Crowley was snarky through the whole process, but even he couldn’t fault the design Sam and his team had come up with. Soon they were shaking hands and saying their goodbyes. Sam gave him a folder with various design options and a list of prices that they would be able to go over at their leisure in order to make decision on how to proceed next.

Sam was walking them back up to the front lobby when they passed a piece of concept art Castiel hadn’t noticed on his way in. He recognized the structure immediately. He stopped in his tracks, stepping forward to get a closer look.

The building in the artwork was unmistakably the lake house he’d called home for a year and a half, but it had been altered. The design seemed more cohesive somehow. An addition had been made that could only be described as a water patio, directly connecting the back of the house with the lake itself. The effect was astonishing. Rather than setting the house above the lake, it connected the elements, no longer isolating them, but bringing them together.

“Who did this drawing?” Castiel asked, unable to tear his eyes away from it. He didn’t get a response and he realized both Sam and Crowley had continued moving forward, unaware he had stopped. His broken voice hadn’t been able to reach them.

Clearing his throat, he asked again more loudly, “Who did this drawing?”

Sam turned, expression curious. His features clouded almost instantly when he saw the piece Castiel had indicated. A shadow of something almost like grief passed over the larger man’s face, but Castiel chose to ignore it. He knew who had done this. He just needed the confirmation. Maybe. Maybe fate had given him a second chance. If he was right… if Dean was here…

“That… My brother. Dean.”

Castiel could barely hear anything else over the pounding of his heart. He felt his breath catch and wasn’t sure how he managed to get out what he really wanted to ask. “Is he… is Dean… is he here? Can I… can I see him?”

For some reason, Sam’s face crumpled at the request, his head dropping to his chest. “Ah. No. Dean - Dean,” he stopped to try and compose himself.

“Dean died. Two years ago today actually. Traffic accident.”

The whole world stopped and Castiel felt his blood run cold. He focused his gaze sharp and intense on Sam, his voice dropping to a growl with the desperation of his next question.

“Where?”

* * *

Oh god, it was his fault. It was entirely his fault that Dean was gone. Cas barely heard Crowley shouting after him as he’d raced down the stairs to the first floor and out the door. He thanked whatever god was still listening that he’d managed to get a parking spot close to the building.

Now he sped down the familiar road out to Maple Lake unaware that he was following same path as Dean, exactly two years prior.

 _Oh God_ , he prayed, _please don’t let it be too late_. He had to make it in time. He had to tell Dean somehow. Fear chased him like a hellhound as he turned the final bend in the road, stopping just beside the worn and dusty blue mailbox that had once featured so prominently in his life.

On instinct, Cas reached for the notepad that no longer lived in his passenger seat.

_Shit._

Surely there was paper somewhere in the car. Cas frantically searched the glove compartment, the console between the seats, and even in the map pocket to no avail. In desperation, he reached into his pockets to find _something_ , when his hand came in contact with a hard square.

Crowley’s Valentine’s Day card. Ripping the card out unread, Castiel grabbed a pen from his discarded lab coat in the back seat and wrote on the blank exterior of the envelope.

 

 

Cas yanked open the mailbox and shoved the graffitied envelope inside, practically yanking the flag off the box itself in his haste to make it stand upright. The pull of metal against metal screeched through the air as the joint protested its long disuse.

Cas stepped back and looked around him, as though he hoped to see Dean stepping through the trees, but nothing happened.

He wasn’t sure what he expected. The day was slightly overcast and cold, a typical February day in Chicago. The sun didn’t suddenly burst through the clouds with a bright hopeful light. The clouds didn’t darken or rumble ominously. Nothing changed to indicate whether his efforts did any good. And if they did, what then?

Would Cas ever know Dean at all?

The only reason Cas had come back to the lake house to begin with was because of Dean’s death. If Dean lived, would Cas even be aware of it? Or would the timeline somehow shift, so that his lunch with Michael on that long ago day continued uninterrupted? Cas found his heart shattering into a thousand pieces at the very idea of never having known Dean, but he would take that punishment if it meant Dean lived. He tried to think of Dean’s tree. He _remembered_ the tree appearing. The past could change. But could something this big?

The more seconds ticked by without anything happening, the more Cas felt the weight of everything crushing in on him. He wrapped his arms around his torso in a vain attempt to hold himself together. How could he do that when he was just discovering his world had fallen apart and he’d never even known?

He turned his back to the mailbox as he stifled a sob. Just as he did, the sound of corroded metal complaining against itself assaulted his ears like the most beautiful music he’d ever heard.

Spinning back around, Cas ran to the box, waiting, willing for the flag to rise again, signaling that Dean was on the other side, that he’d gotten the message. He kept waiting and the sharp bubble of hope that filled his chest began to deflate like a balloon with a slow leak. He felt his knees began to collapse under him, no longer able to hold back his tears.

He was still here. Nothing had changed. It could only mean that Dean had ignored him and gone to the plaza anyway. Cas grieved again for the loss of the stranger he held in his arms two years ago. Only this time, it was so much worse, because now he wasn’t a stranger. Now he was Dean. He was the man who’d made Cas fall hopelessly in love with him without ever even knowing him in person. He was the beautiful soul with whom Cas had formed a profound bond. For what?

Why had the universe seen fit to do this to him? Or worse, to Dean, whose talent and potential was so obvious? What had he done to deserve this?

Cas knelt against the ground and screamed out his pain. It echoed over the stillness of the lake and into the trees, startling a flock of birds that had remained behind for the winter months.

As the sound died away, it was replaced by something else. The tell tale rumble of an engine in the distance could be heard coming up the dirt road that led in front of the house.

Cas looked up, his emotions too strung out on the roller coaster of the last few hours to react any more than that.

He watched as the body of a long black car pulled into view. He knew this car. When Dean had first talked about the Impala, he had done so with so much pride, that Cas had immediately Googled the make and model to learn what he could.

The gasping breaths that had wracked his body locked themselves inside his chest as the car stopped approximately thirty feet from where he knelt on the ground, unable to move. His eyes traced over the shape of the car as the door opened and a figure stepped out.

It had been almost four years since he’d seen this face, and the last time he had, Cas hadn’t known who he was. But he knew now.

Cas wasn’t sure how it was possible. How they could both be here, now in this time. He was probably dreaming, or so far into his grief that he was hallucinating. He realized he didn’t care.

Standing slowly, Cas stared, eyes boring into Dean, afraid that if he looked away, the other man would vanish. Dean stopped a few yards from him, hands tucked into his pockets and shoulders slightly hunched. When Castiel realized it was because Dean was _nervous_ , it broke him out of his daze.

Moving forward with a speed he was unfamiliar with before now, Cas launched himself at Dean, who, to his great relief, immediately responded by wrapping his arms around Cas. In turn, Cas melted into the warmth, the fear that had frozen him only moments before melting away with his relief.

Dean pulled back ever so slightly, searching Cas’ gaze momentarily as though for permission. “Cas…” Dean grated out in an almost broken voice that was music to his ears.

Cas knew what he was asking, and while he appreciated it, the answer seemed obvious and unnecessary in the moment. Slipping a hand to the back of Dean’s head, he pulled the other man forward until their lips met in a kiss long overdue.

Dean responded with four years of waiting and longing, tightening his arms around Cas as though he was just as scared as Cas that this was nothing more than an elaborate trick or illusion. In turn, Cas held nothing back, wanting to make sure Dean understood how grateful he was that Dean had waited. That he had forgiven him and granted him a second chance. That he was here, _alive_ in Cas’ arms.

Both men startled apart when a soft pressure wound itself around their lower legs. They looked down simultaneously to see a familiar tawny cat rubbing against them, a rumbling purr of satisfaction seeming to vibrate through his entire frame.  

“Gabriel?” Castiel asked, confusion lacing his voice. The last time he’d seen the cat was in his apartment in the city that morning. Had he somehow snuck into his car? How had Cas failed to notice him before?

Ultimately, he decided not to question it. Just as he wasn’t going to question finally having Dean in his arms, even though it defied all logic.

He turned his gaze back up from the cat to the man in question. Reaching a hand up, he traced Dean’s face, taking in the spray of freckles across his nose and across his cheeks, the bright, happy green eyes framed by lashes that any model would kill for. No. He wouldn’t question whatever power had decided to bring him this man, but he would be grateful.

“I thought…” He had to clear his throat and try again. “I thought I hadn’t made it in time,” he admitted to Dean, the fear still too close to the surface to completely shake.

Dean leaned his forehead against Cas’ and dragged a hand up along Cas’ arm to close lightly around the wrist closest to his own cheek, his other hand firmly around Cas’ waist. He made no attempt to move the other man’s hand, just anchored them closer together. “I almost didn’t check the box,” he admitted, huffing a small laugh at what was for him, a distant memory. “I’d already left, planning to go to the Plaza. Try and get you to listen to me, even though I knew you would think I was bat shit insane.”

He pulled back a little and looked down at the cat again. “It was actually Gabe here that stopped me.”

Cas’ brow furrowed in confusion. “Gabriel?” he asked, looking down at the cat as well.

“Yep. Was about fifty feet down the road when I had to slam on my breaks. He was just sitting in the middle of the road pretty as you please and wouldn’t move. Had to get out of the car to try and get him out of the road.” He shook his head the memory. “By the way, that cat is one fast son of a bitch, in case you didn’t know. Took off back in the direction of the house. I dunno, something just said I should follow. That was when I saw the flag up.”

With a rush of affection, Cas smiled and bent down to scoop Gabriel up. Dean dropped the hand holding Cas’ wrist to scratch the cat’s head.  “I did go to Daley Plaza. I saw you there with you brother. I know that makes me sound like a stalker, but I still had to see you again, even if it was from a distance.” Dean smiled softly. “But I got your letter. I didn’t cross the street. I knew about the bus, and I waited, just like you asked.”

Cas surged forward, Gabriel protesting loudly when he was squished between the two men as Cas pulled Dean in for another kiss.

Which was abruptly interrupted when Dean sneezed. Laughing, they broke apart. Dean still keeping a firm arm around Cas’ waist, as though unwilling to let him go. Cas leaned into his side as they turned in tandem toward the lake house. Cas thought again about the concept drawing he’d seen hanging in Sam’s office. As they walked down the dock, he could almost see the reality of it, just waiting to happen.

A smile split his face as he realized the time for waiting was over. Both of them were finally where and when they belonged.

“So,” he said as he pulled Dean more closely to him. “How about we catch up on the last two years?”

He thought sound of Dean’s laughter, alive and vibrant, ringing off the lake was one of the most beautiful sounds he would ever hear.

He was proven wrong when Dean leaned over to kiss his temple and whispered, “Welcome home, Cas.”

 


End file.
